


Sua Sponte

by the_wordbutler



Series: Motion Practice [32]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Legal Drama, Multi, motion practice universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-04-08 13:46:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 136,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4307391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_wordbutler/pseuds/the_wordbutler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Call your brother,” Bruce says, and a few days later, Barney appears on their doorstep.  </p><p>Clint’d always warned Phil that Barney might cause them trouble someday.  Might pop back up, out of the ashes, armed with heavy baggage and ready to drag everyone he loved down with him.  But despite all these warnings—these near-promises whispered in the dead of night—Phil’s never really believed his husband.</p><p>At least, until now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Other People We Might Be

**Author's Note:**

> As previously stated in other disclaimers: the following story is a work of fiction. I was a law student when I started this series, and most of my inspiration to start down this crazy path originated when I worked as an intern at an office not unlike the Suffolk County District Attorney’s Office.
> 
> That said, any similarity in this story to real people, places, events, or cases is entirely accidental. Nothing in this story is based directly off my experience. At no time have I lifted real cases, scenarios, or people from my work life and deposited them into this fic, and I won’t be doing so.
> 
> Along those lines, too, please keep in mind: this is fiction. Although some of the law featured in this story is based on the real law of my jurisdiction, I have done no or very little additional research. Legal concepts may be oversimplified, under-nuanced, or simply wrong for the purpose of the narrative. Some details may be incorrect or omitted. Nothing in this story purports to be legal advice of any kind.
> 
> This story involves characters which first appeared in Motion Practice. Reading the rest of the stories for context is not required but may be helpful. This story will spoil the events of previous stories if you’ve not read them first.
> 
> Thank you as always to Jen and saranoh, who keep me writing no matter the occasion.
> 
> Also, as a side note, this fic will feature dynamic tags, and characters will be added as they appear to avoid spoilers for those who read update-to-update.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Phil and Clint discuss the women in their lives, the ever-growing number of children in their office, and the life they could have had if they’d met only a few years earlier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story starts during Chapter 9 of “Harmless Error.” If you skipped that story, here’s a quick summary of what’s important: Maria’s pregnant and upset, and she comes to talk out her feelings with Phil. That’s about all you need to know (although Maria’s pregnancy and status as a new parent will be mentioned in this story more than once). Also relevant: when Maria pulls up at Phil and Clint’s, Clint and Kate Bishop are playing lawn darts.
> 
> Really, you should just read that scene in Chapter 9, it’s kind of the greatest.
> 
> Otherwise, this story (like the others) can probably stand alone. 
> 
> Thanks as always to my magnificent beta-readers, Jen and saranoh. They are the rocks upon which this universe is built.

“She okay?” Clint asks about an hour after Maria finally leaves, his hip resting against the doorframe and his arms crossed. The kitchen’s still a mess, the countertop littered with empty glass jars that Phil’s about to run through the dishwasher, and Phil shuts off the water to raise his eyebrows. Clint shrugs, but his eyes never drift from Phil’s face. “I’ve worked at the office for two years now, boss. It’s about time I figured out that Hill clicks over from ‘fine’ to ‘losing it’ in about half a second.”

Phil crinkles his nose slightly. “She’s pregnant, not ‘losing it.’”

“Yeah, because the two are mutually exclusive.” Clint flashes him an easy, shit-eating grin, and he rolls his eyes as he returns to his kitchen clean up. Within a few seconds, Clint’s padded across the tile in his bare feet and hoisted himself onto the kitchen island, and Phil works very hard to ignore how warm and _right_ that closeness feels. Less than a year ago, Clint’d considered walking out on him; now, there’s a wedding band on his finger and strong legs tangled in his every night.

He hums to himself as he finishes loading the top rack.

“But seriously,” Clint says after a few more seconds, and Phil frowns as he glances back over his shoulder. “You sure Maria’s okay? She seemed pretty shaken up by whatever happened between her and— Jasper? Her ex? I couldn’t tell.”

“Couldn’t tell, or weren’t listening?” Phil teases, and Clint immediately waves him off. “And, for what it’s worth, I think she’ll probably be all right in the long run. Maria— Sometimes, she’s her own worst enemy. Especially when it comes to reaching for what she wants.”

Clint grins. “Sounds like somebody else I know.”

“You mean besides you and your best friends?” Phil challenges. Clint rolls his eyes—to hide the way his laugh lines crinkle, most likely—and Phil admires him for a moment before he kicks the dishwasher shut. When he leans back against the countertop, he’s facing Clint and his swinging, grass-stained feet. “Speaking of the women in our lives, how’s your surrogate daughter tonight?”

His husband immediately scowls. “You know she’s like nine years old and spoiled rotten, right?”

Phil raises his eyebrows. “And?”

Clint maintains his scowl for all of two minutes before he finally heaves a sigh. “And I guess she’s struggling with the whole ‘seventeen and not sure who to date’ thing for the first time,” he admits. He scrubs a hand over his face and through his hair. “I swear, I must’ve caught selective amnesia or something, ‘cause I don’t remember this kind of heartbreaking angst from back in high school.”

Phil purses his lips to keep from smirking. “Not even with Bobbi?”

Clint groans and buries his face in his hands. “I knew I never should’ve told you about Bobbi,” he complains. “Telling you about Bobbi ruined my fucking life.”

“And yet, it’s still better than if you’d waited for Barney to tell me,” Phil points out.

“Next time around, I’m marrying a guy who _doesn’t_ go out of his way to play nice with my brother.” Phil finally laughs aloud, and Clint’s whole face lights up when he peeks out of his hands. He unfolds after that, leaning back onto his elbows and stretching out on the island just enough that his t-shirt rides up, and Phil swallows involuntarily at the stripe of tanned belly he reveals. Someday, he thinks, he might stop harboring secret fantasies about stripping his husband naked and bending him over the kitchen table.

But not today.

“I don’t hate it, you know,” Clint says, and Phil jerks out of his filthy daydream with a hard blink. “Being Kate’s, I don’t know, her surrogate big brother or whatever.” Something deep inside Phil’s belly twists at that, but Clint just shrugs noncommittally. “I never had somebody like that in my life. Barney and the other guys, sure, but not somebody who’d already figured their shit out. Might’ve saved me from some of the bullshit I went through.”

He keeps his voice straight and even, but Phil hears the layers underneath the words, the slight note of wistfulness that seeps into his tone. He pushes away from the countertop and closes the distance between them, his hands sliding up Clint’s legs to rest on his strong thighs. Clint tips his head and lifts his chin until their eyes meet, and for just one second, the world narrows until they’re the only people in it. 

Phil strokes his thumb along a tiny tear in Clint’s jeans before he says, “You would’ve become a different person.”

“Or I would’ve met you ten years earlier.” One of Clint’s big hands reaches out to cup the side of Phil’s neck, and Phil sighs quietly at the roughness of his calluses. “You ever think about that? How our life would’ve turned out different if we’d just found each other a little sooner? ‘Cause sometimes, I look at people like Steve and Bucky, or even Stark and Bruce—”

Phil cringes. “Please don’t compare our relationship to theirs.”

Clint grins. “—and I wonder what we could’ve accomplished if we’d stumbled into each other even, like, five years ahead of when we did.” He traces the curve of Phil’s ear with his thumb, his smile dropping slowly away. “We lost a lot of time. We danced around, chased the wrong thing, you name it. And if we’d met sooner, maybe . . . ”

He trails off, his eyelashes fluttering as he glances into the empty space between them, and Phil wets his lips to buy him a half second. He fights against his urge to ask Clint exactly what he’s envisioning, to open up the dozen wounds that Clint’s fought to heal since the end of last summer.

But deep down, Phil’s sure he already knows the answer. 

“We could’ve ended up like Maria and her ex-husband,” he offers, because he’s not sure what else there is to say. Clint jerks his head up, his eyebrows raised, and Phil shrugs. “They married too young and broke one another’s hearts. We could’ve ended up exactly like that.”

The corner of Clint’s mouth kicks up into a tiny grin. “You the one sleeping with Sitwell in this scenario?”

Phil scowls. “Thank you, but I have _some_ taste,” he reminds his husband, and Clint laughs aloud as he leans in for a kiss.

A few hours later, Clint pauses just outside the bathroom doorway, his shirt halfway off. “You know,” he remarks, “Hill’s kid makes six.”

Phil stops himself from raking his eyes over every one of Clint’s muscles—first his taut stomach, then the flex of his arms and chest as he flings the t-shirt in the vague direction of the hamper—and forces himself to meet his husband’s eyes. “Six what?”

“Office babies. Nine if you count Fury’s kids.” He shrugs slightly as he saunters over into Phil’s space and presses against Phil’s back as he reaches to grab his toothbrush. Phil resists the urge to lick his lips. “You think the rest of them ever stop and count?”

“I think Tony and Bruce count all the time, but only to make sure they haven’t lost one.” Clint grins at that, his laugh lines bunching, and Phil watches in the mirror as his husband starts brushing his teeth. “And I think most people forget about our recent baby boom until we’re all together—and then, they’re too busy corralling Girl Scouts to really notice.”

Clint snorts. “Already counting down the days ‘til cookie season?”

“Only because somebody ate all my Thin Mints out of the freezer.” Clint flutters his eyelashes innocently, and Phil narrows his eyes. “Name one other potential Thin Mint thief other than—”

“Wade?” Clint finishes, and he laughs when Phil shakes his head. “You caught him red-handed.”

“With the peanut butter sandwich cookies, yes. Not with my Thin Mints. Only my husband knew where I hid the Thin Mints.” Clint hides his smirk by ducking and spitting, and Phil sighs. “I’m starting to think the honeymoon’s officially over if you won’t even admit to cookie thievery.”

“Maybe you’re confusing me for your other husband,” Clint suggests, and he kisses the back of Phil’s shoulder as he wanders back into the bedroom.

Phil twists to watch him walk away, to study the line of his back and the swing of his hips as he shucks his threadbare jeans and half-falls into bed, and for a few seconds, he imagines meeting Clint as a younger man. There’s no crinkling crow’s feet in that scenario, no gray plaguing Phil’s temples or crick in his back when he sleeps wrong, but Clint’s hair and skin are sun-kissed, his shoulders strong. In that universe, where they met at twenty-five and thirty instead of a full decade later, they live in a bigger house with a respectable lawn, host almost as many neighborhood parties as Tony, and keep a dog as well as a needy gray cat. They run at the park and eat doughnuts, sure, but they also—

The thought that flutters into Phil’s head next steals his breath, and he swallows hard around an unexpected wave of emotion.

Because somehow, in his impossible scenario, they bring home a box of doughnuts to share with their kids.

He shoves that thought back down to the place it belongs, a dark canyon of forgotten daydreams that he refuses to acknowledge, and he abandons it there as he shuts off the bathroom light. Clint’s stretched out in the middle of the bed, one hand reaching into the space between their pillows to pet the cat, and he releases a surprised little noise when Phil straddles him. His skin’s warm and familiar, pliable under Phil’s hands, and his hips arch up when Phil lightly rakes fingernails over his stomach.

“Talking about the office kids wound you up?” he jokes, and he hisses when one of Phil’s thumbs grazes against a nipple. “‘Cause the Thin Mints are still a sore enough spot, I’d think—”

“Maybe you wandering around half-naked did the trick,” Phil cuts him off, and tips forward to kiss the grin right off of Clint’s face.

Words and their remaining articles of clothing—Phil’s t-shirt and underwear, Clint’s boxers—fall to the wayside after that, replaced with the intoxicating heat of skin against skin. The wistfulness that lingers in the back of Phil’s mind burns up like kindling as Clint’s rough hands slide down his back and sides, and by the time they’ve finished fumbling in the bedside table, he’s tipping his head back and gasping. Clint pushes him down onto the mattress, kissing him hard and dirty, and Phil cedes all control to the familiar press of his fingers and the wicked promises that spill from Clint’s lips.

He feels the thin threads of his control start to fray long before Clint’s looming above him, but the second he’s there—setting the tempo and plucking him apart, inch by inch—Phil’s clinging on for dear life. He runs his hands over Clint’s arms, sides, and back, pulling him closer while trying to hold himself at arm’s length.

“Shit,” Clint mutters against the shell of Phil’s ear. “Phil, I—”

“Yeah,” Phil pants in response, and the second Clint snakes a hand between them, he completely unravels. 

Afterward, when they’re a tangled, boneless mass of limbs splayed out in the middle of the mattress, Clint suddenly snorts a laugh. Phil tips his head to frown at him. “While I usually appreciate your comments on my form,” he says, “it’s late and I’m—”

Clint rolls his eyes. “Yeah, ‘cause _that’s_ what I’m laughing about.” Phil grins at him, his fingers carding through his messy, sweat-damp hair, and for one brilliant moment, he’s able to just watch his husband. To drink in his proximity, to study his face, to match his breathing until they feel like one person.

His hand drifts, and he brushes his thumb over Clint’s lips. Clint smiles and tilts his head just far enough to kiss the inside of his palm.

“For the record,” he finally says, “I laughed ‘cause apart from Nat and Pepper, we might end up the only childless couple in the whole office.”

Phil seals up the dark canyon in the back of his mind by grinning at his husband. “Except for Kate Bishop, you mean.”

Clint groans. “I am _not_ her parent,” he laments, and he hits Phil with a pillow when Phil laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the curious, _sua sponte_ means "of their own accord." In law, the phrase generally refers to when a court acts without prompting by any of the parties.
> 
> All that said: welcome back to the MPU! I apologize again for the hiatus, but trust me: it's helped Sua Sponte be the best story it possibly can be. I am about a third of the way through with the story already, and I think you'll all enjoy where it's headed.
> 
> Otherwise, a new MPU posting schedule will be available when I post Chapter 2. Can I make a schedule all the way through this story? We'll see!


	2. Call Your Brother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Bruce Banner issues an ominous warning, and Phil calls on a lot of help to stave off a crisis in the making. (Or at least, what he assumes is a crisis. He never knows with Barney.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are references in this chapter to original characters from “Motion Practice.” You do not need to have read that story to follow this one; just know that they are people from Clint’s past who popped up while Clint and Phil were falling in love. 
> 
> Thanks as always to my betas, Jen and saranoh. One accused me of burying the lead, one flipped out, and it is up to you to determine which reaction belongs to whom.

“She’s usually only like this with puppies and fireflies,” Tony says, scrubbing a hand over his goatee. “I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do if she develops a baby thing. A baby thing might be a bridge too far.”

Standing at his shoulder, Bruce sighs. “They don’t bite, you know.”

Tony jabs the neck of his beer bottle firmly into his husband’s upper arm. “They absolutely do bite, and you know it,” he retorts, and Bruce rolls his eyes. “No, hey, I looked this up on the internet the last time you used the ‘they don’t bite’ baby defense on me. Babies go through a biting phase. You have to teach them to knock it off.” When Bruce casts a long-suffering glance in Phil’s direction, Phil shrugs and hides his smirk behind his own beer bottle. Tony scowls at both of them. “Try and justify the baby thing as much or as little as you want, Banner, but at the end of the day, I will buy her literally a hundred puppies before I subject myself to even ten seconds of that special hell.”

Bruce raises his eyebrows. “The special hell where we acquire a baby that neither of us wants just to placate our foster daughter?”

“No, the special hell where you rent a baby for most of an afternoon to placate our foster daughter and I end up cuddling the damn thing,” Tony returns, and Phil suspects that Bruce only reaches for his own drink to hide his tiny smile.

Dot Barnes’s sixth birthday party, like all of her other birthday parties, is a bacchanalia of snack food, grilled meats, and cupcakes. Phil’s not sure who decided that the party needed to overlap with Memorial Day—he’s overheard snippets of a conversation between Steve and Natasha that suggest Dot spent her _real_ birthday at Chuck E. Cheese with a good three-fourths of her kindergarten class (plus, of course, Amy Jimenez)—but for once, the weather’s perfect. There’s a breeze rustling through the trees, sunlight glinting off the pool, and the kids are all—

“No adults in the crossfire!” Bucky shouts at Dot as she runs past with an enormous squirt gun, Miles hot on her heels. The latter waves a quick apology to Pepper (or, more likely, to the long stripe of wet that he’s slashed down Pepper’s back) before charging into the flowerbeds. Phil’s not sure what exactly they’re playing—maybe just a straight-up water gun fight, maybe some strange capture-the-flag hybrid—but either way, the boy’s not prepared for when Clint hops down from top of the slide, squirt gun in hand. Miles squeaks, Clint grins, and there’s almost a multi-child pileup as Teddy, Ganke, and Dot all converge on the same exact point.

“It’s four on one,” Teddy points out with a smug little grin.

“Not by my count,” Clint replies, and Ganke shrieks like a banshee when Natasha, Jasper, and Steve all break away from their respectable-looking adult conversation to soak the kids to the bone.

The two warring factions scatter a second later, with Steve stopping by Bucky and Pepper’s place at the snack table to pick up a freshly refilled water gun (and exchange a victory high-five with his husband), and half of the children disappear into the front yard. There’s a little red in Clint’s cheeks as he charges around the far end of the pool, clearly on the prowl, and Phil smiles without really realizing. It’s only after Clint’s disappeared into the side yard that he returns to his conversation and finds both Bruce and Tony staring at him.

He raises his eyebrows. “What?”

“Six months is the cutoff for sick newlywed heart eyes,” Tony informs him. Bruce shakes his head but fails at hiding his smile, and Phil rolls his eyes at both of them. “Sorry, but it’s in the newlywed handbook and everything. And since your lovelorn gazing into the middle distance interrupted our rousing conversation about Amy bonding with Maria—”

“Your rousing conversation,” Bruce mutters.

“—I think it’s only fair to cut you off at the pass.” Tony shrugs. “Call it an invaluable public service.”

“Oh, your services are certainly without value,” Phil replies, and sips his beer while Tony rolls his eyes. “Besides, I wasn’t gazing into the middle distance—”

Bruce cringes slightly. “Well . . . ”

“—as much as I was just momentarily distracted.” Tony’s mouth immediately pops open, but Phil holds up his hand. “And not by my husband, either.”

“There are worse things to be distracted by, actually,” Bruce volunteers with a little tip of his head, and Phil laughs aloud at the horror that blooms across Tony’s face.

He leaves the Banner-and-Stark contingent shortly after that—half because he’s out of beer and half because he’s not sure he needs to listen to them bicker about where his husband ranks on Bruce’s “Guilt-Free Three (Five if There’s Ladies).” Everyone else is engaged in their own conversations—Maria’s still chatting with Amy, Bucky and Pepper are guarding the snack table (while Bucky refills squirt guns from the nearby hose), Thor and Jane murmur quietly to one another while Darcy and Peggy entertain their baby nearby—and somehow, Phil ends up alone on the porch swing, his beer condensing in his hand. He loves these people, loves how much they care for one another, but sometimes, these parties feel daunting and over-full.

Or maybe, he thinks ruefully, he’s still distracted from his conversation with Clint a few weeks earlier, the one that still rattles his brains in some of his quieter moments.

He’s only a couple sips into his beer when the porch swing suddenly rocks under someone else’s weight, and he only realizes just how far he’d fallen into his thoughts when he glances over and discovers Teddy Altman next to him. Teddy flashes him a thousand watt grin as he finishes swigging from his water bottle. “Sorry,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Anyone who’s not playing is sort of our safe zone, and I need a break.”

Phil grins. “Can’t keep up with the six-year-old?” 

Teddy laughs. “Can’t text when there’s water around,” he replies, and wiggles his cell phone. “We’re trying to land tickets for this big musical movie marathon—kind of a birthday gift for Billy, kind of just a nice ‘hey, we’re out of school for the summer’ present for the rest of us—but Kate’s not answering any of our texts and America’s being all . . . ” He crinkles his nose and curls his lips, and Phil chuckles at the sheer _attitude_ in his expression. “You’re kind of lucky Kate likes you and Clint so much. You probably don’t have to deal with all the drama.”

Phil blinks almost involuntarily. “Kate talks about us?” he asks.

Teddy’s brow creases. “Uh, are you kidding? Kate thinks you’re the greatest thing since Olive Garden bread sticks. We dread when she hangs out with you guys, because she always has three days’ worth of _ugh, listen to what Barton did this time_ stories.” Phil snorts half a laugh, and Teddy grins again. “Kate’s not good at talking about how she feels,” he continues, “but trust me: she thinks you guys are pretty great.”

“Sounds mostly like she thinks Clint’s pretty great,” Phil points out—and immediately flinches at how weirdly passive-aggressive he sounds. “Of course, I don’t mind that she _does_ , but I don’t want you to give me credit he—”

“It’s pretty much fifty-fifty,” Teddy cuts in, his tone oddly reassuring for a sixteen-year-old boy. “She talks about Clint a lot more—I kind of think _she_ thinks he’s a human disaster, and she likes seeing adults like that—but trust me, she’s grateful for both of you.” He glances down at his cell phone for a moment, his face shadowed by the awning over the swing, and Phil watches as he rolls his lips together. “And since her knowing you guys kind of gave us our friend back, we’re pretty grateful for you, too.”

For a brief, glimmering moment, Teddy reminds Phil so much of his nephews that his heart hurts, and he can’t really stop himself from reaching out and clasping the teenager’s shoulder. Teddy tips his head in Phil’s direction, his expression sheepish but somehow impossibly earnest, and Phil smiles at him. “For what it’s worth,” he says, “Kate helped Clint survive last summer. I was a horrible partner, but Kate— In her own way, I think she was the best friend Clint had.”

Teddy snorts and shakes his head. “According to Kate, you’re pretty much the perfect husband,” he replies. “Like, I’m pretty sure she’s writing Billy and me a _how to live your life like Clint and Phil_ instruction manual.”

“Just know I’ll be expecting a copy, too,” Phil tells him, and for some reason, his heart warms at Teddy’s booming laugh. 

“Okay, _this_ is officially the scariest team-up since you bonded with Kate,” Clint suddenly offers, and Phil tips his head up just as his husband appears behind him. His t-shirt and hair are damp and he’s panting slightly, but he’s grinning like a fool. Teddy holds up both hands, cell phone and all, but Clint waves him off. “Don’t worry, I’ve decided ‘capture the deflated water wing we found in the back of the garage’ is a young man’s game. Retired my weapon and everything.”

Teddy squints at him. “I’m not sure I believe you.”

“Phil can frisk me if you want confirmation,” Clint offers, and Teddy laughs when Phil rolls his eyes. Phil expects Clint to drop a kiss onto his head, steal his beer, and wander off, but instead, he reaches over and lightly shoves at Teddy’s shoulders. “Move.”

Teddy forces an overblown scowl. “I was here first,” he complains.

“Yeah, but that’s _my_ husband, and unless you’re willing to take one for the team, I—”

“Okay, no,” Teddy replies, hopping up off the swing like he’s spring-loaded. Phil knows from the way Clint starts laughing that he’s pulled one of his more offended faces, but Teddy just raises his hands. “I’m sorry, Mister Coulson, it’s not that you’re not great—”

“It’s just that you’re _Mister_ Coulson instead of just Phil,” Clint points out smugly. Teddy immediately turns six different shades of red, but Clint just waves him off. “His ego can take the hit, I promise.”

Teddy offers up one stuttering, bashful nod before he rises from the swing and flees, Clint finger-waving after him. The whole contraption shifts and stutters when Clint throws himself onto the bench seat, and Phil rolls his eyes. “I can’t decide between being annoyed that you embarrassed Teddy or being annoyed that you implied I’m old.”

Clint grins. “I call ‘em like I see ‘em, boss,” he teases. He slings an arm around the back of Phil’s shoulders while Phil shakes his head. “And for the record, you can’t tease me about Kate if you acquire a teenager of your own.”

Phil snorts. “I think Teddy well and truly belongs to Bruce and Tony.”

“Maybe in another six or eight months, but not _quite_ yet.” He pauses, beer halfway to his lips and eyebrows raised, but Clint just frowns. “C’mon, I told you this. Teddy and Amy as a two-for-one package adoption deal? You’ve heard this story.”

“Only if you muttered it when we were both asleep, maybe,” Phil returns. Clint pulls a face and divests him of his beer, but Phil glances back out across the yard. Teddy’s rejoined the ranks of the Stark-and-Banner family—he’s chatting with Miles and Bruce, his elbow on Amy’s head while Amy scowls at him—and for a moment, Phil’s able to imagine them as one cohesive unit. 

Well, as cohesive as any unit can be when Tony Stark is a major component, of course.

Clint shrugs as he hands the beer bottle back. “According to Bruce,” he continues, rocking the swing slightly, “Teddy’s in some sort of limbo where he receives a ton of benefits from his dead dad, but only if his dead dad _stays_ his dad. The second he’s adopted, the gravy train stops flowing.” He nods toward where Tony’s holding court with Thor, Steve, Bucky, and Darcy. “Unless he moves from one gravy train to another.”

“Which he won’t do without Amy?” Phil asks.

“Or that Amy won’t do without him. Bruce went a little twitchy when we started asking him for specifics.” 

Phil huffs a little laugh as he finally sips his beer, but Clint’s face softens slightly. He runs his thumb along the back of Phil’s shoulder, tracing one of a thousand meaningless patterns there, and Phil nudges him lightly in the ribs. “Play your cards right, and maybe they’ll name you and Natasha somebody’s godparents.”

Clint scoffs. “Yeah, the atheist and the agnostic are gonna name _whatever_ me and Nat are as somebody’s godparents.”

Phil shrugs. “Given that Tony didn’t spontaneously combust when Steve asked him to be Dot’s godfather . . . ” he intones, and Clint rolls his eyes before stealing his beer again.

The sun’s setting an hour later when Natasha wanders up to Phil and knocks their shoulders together. They’re both standing out on the front stoop as Tony and Thor clumsily direct the last couple cars out onto the street, and Phil frowns slightly at Natasha and her oversized hoodie. “Please tell me that’s not your winning bingo move.”

Natasha shrugs. “Turns out, Bruce and Teddy have the same general taste in sweatshirts.” He snorts and shakes his head slightly, but Natasha’s eyes never leave his face. “You lose Clint?” she asks after a beat.

“He ducked inside with Bruce. Something about lemon squares for book club.” Natasha huffs and rolls her eyes, and Phil smiles at her. “What about you? You come with Pepper?”

“She’s attending some kind of paralegal conference with Peggy this coming week, and they decided to go up early. I think they’re going to visit a special exhibit at the art museum.” She crosses her arms over her chest when Phil snickers. “I paid attention.”

“Until they started referencing their favorite paintings by name and artistic period?” Phil guesses.

“I still think they’re lucky they didn’t put me to sleep,” Natasha mutters, and this time, he laughs aloud. The corner of her mouth twists into something that’s _almost_ a smile, but for some reason, her eyes keep studying his face. He swallows and shifts his weight, about to ask whether there’s something stuck between his teeth, when she comments, “I’m starting to think you like the Stark children.”

He barely resists the urge to roll his eyes. “I have no reason to _not_ like the Stark children.”

“Except that they’re Stark’s, of course,” Natasha replies archly, and she smirks when Phil snorts a laugh. Her posture softens slightly, her hands dropping into her pockets, but there’s still something stern—stern and deadly, really—in her expression. “Kate and Teddy are friends, you know.”

He frowns. “I’m aware, but I don’t know—”

“And you and Clint are already practically raising her.” He draws in a breath, ready to protest, but she holds up a sleeve-covered hand. “Okay, not raising,” she corrects herself, “but mentoring. Guiding, maybe. Some word that implies you’re more than just the adults she hangs out with twice a week.”

Phil feels his shoulders tighten against his will. “It’s not twice a week.”

“She comes in for a cafeteria smoothie every Thursday when she’s done with Wade,” Natasha quickly replies. “If he’s not in court, Clint meets her. That’s twice.” When he rolls his lips together instead of replying, she shakes her head slightly. “I’m not saying it’s a bad thing. Honestly, from what Bruce’s said when we’re out together, I think most of the kids in Teddy’s peer group need mentors. I just think it’s nice that both you and Clint have found young people you connect with.”

He narrows his eyes. “And by young people, you mean kids.”

“Funny how I never said that.” 

Phil releases a long sigh—half because he’s frustrated at her usual mysteriousness, half because he’s pretty sure he knows what she’s seen in both him and Clint—but before he’s able to cobble together a response, someone leans hard on a car horn. By the time he recognizes that the horn is just Steve wishing them all an especially enthusiastic goodbye (complete with Dot waving both hands out the window and Amy blowing kisses from where she’s standing at Tony’s side), his frustration’s cooled into something slower and stickier, like tree sap hardening into amber.

He spends a few seconds watching Tony teach Amy “completely real and not at all fictional” traffic signals before he glances back over at Natasha. “Didn’t you give Bruce a similar pep talk about mentoring children when Miles first dropped into his life?”

Natasha smiles gently. “No, I encouraged _him_ to keep Miles and build a family. I mostly just want you to admit that not all teenagers make you squirm.”

Phil snorts and shakes his head. “Why squirm under the oppressive yoke of a sixteen-year-old when I have you?” he asks, and he only smiles when she finally laughs. 

 

==

 

“Is Clint around?” Bruce asks the first Tuesday in June, and Phil frowns as he glances away from his computer monitor.

Over the last couple weeks, Phil’s professional life has felt mostly like a slow descent into madness thanks in part to their usual springtime crime bump and in part to Maria’s impending maternity leave. Right now, for instance, Phil’s desk is a mountain range of organized chaos consisting of a half-dozen stacks of folders. The stacks vary in height, urgency, and attorney assignment, but to most people, they look mostly like Phil’s building buttresses to protect him from the rest of the office.

And given the face Natasha’ll probably pull when she receives some of her new cases for July and August, buttresses are actually a good idea.

He quickly sweeps his eyes over the mess, a half-formed apology on his lips (because even if Bruce is the reigning king of mild chaos, he deserves better from his supervisor)—and then, Phil’s gaze lands on his colleague’s face. Tuesdays are always Bruce’s busiest, days when the man disappears into Judge Smithe’s courtroom and only emerges when and if his husband forces him to eat. But today, the man looks— The word “harried” pops into Phil’s mind first, but it’s somehow insufficient. Because while Bruce’s dress shirts are always rumpled and his hair isalways a mass of unkempt curls, he’s now wide-eyed and a little frantic, like a man who slept a night in a haunted house but lived to tell the tale.

Phil’s frown falters, his brow tightening. He swallows before he asks, “Is everything okay?”

“It—” Bruce starts, but his voice falters slightly. Behind him, in the hallway, one of the file clerks wanders by, Jane hot on her heels. Jane greets Bruce with a smile, and Bruce half-waves over his shoulder. His eyes never leave Phil’s face. “I need to talk to Clint,” he says once the distraction’s passed. “Both of you would be better, but I at least need Clint.”

A few dozen scenarios rush through Phil’s mind all at once, ranging in severity from mundane frustrations like a flat tire to panic-station nightmares, but he stomps down on all of them as he reaches for where he’s pinned up this week’s calendar. All Clint’s hearings and meetings are highlighted in bright purple, and he only needs to squint at the clock once before answering, “He’s covering some probation revocation hearings while Bucky’s in jury trial this week. He should be done within the hour.”

Bruce purses his lips. “Judge English?”

“Judge Brassels.” Bruce flinches slightly—Judge Brassels, after all, is probably the slowest judge in the history of Suffolk County—but Phil ignores his momentary discomfort. “Steve’s free this morning, so if I need to pull Clint out and replace him, I can—”

“No, it’s not urgent, and I need to be back downstairs in—” The other man glances at his watch, scowls, and shakes his wrist lightly before he checks it a second time. When the number (presumably) remains the same, he heaves a sigh and drags a hand through his messy hair. “I need to be back downstairs,” he says, “but call me when you’re both available, and I’ll ask Judge Smithe for a recess.”

A flash of cold runs through the pit of Phil’s belly, and he swallows against the rising tide of dread that immediately follows.

“Bruce, I don’t—”

“Please,” Bruce stresses, and he disappears back down the hallway before Phil’s able to ask anything else.

The silence that sweeps in to fill the void Bruce leaves feels suffocating and oppressive, and Phil scrubs a hand over his face as he waits for the office’s usual white noise to take its place. Bruce Banner is a talented attorney, he reminds himself, but he sometimes approaches law like a mad scientist, scattering his ideas (or worse, his _work_ ) to the four corners of the room and waiting for a spark of inspiration. Most of the time, his method works wonders—he’s helped hundreds of children and their families with his ingenuity (and sometimes, with his temper)—but even after more than a decade together, Phil’s still learning to translate _scatty scientist Banner_ into an actual, human language.

And that’s exactly the problem today, Phil assures himself as he swivels to face down his file-folder buttresses. Bruce is firing on all his usual, Bruce-specific cylinders, and Phil’s left with only the vapor trails. That’s why he’s confused and a little panicked—and why he’s sure there’s absolutely nothing to worry about.

Bruce probably just needs Clint’s hand on a case. Maybe there’s a conflict of interest. Or maybe, since Bruce wanted to hear from both of them, Kate’s up to some of her old tricks. A problem, sure, but one they’re obviously capable of handling.

He nods to himself, reopens the spreadsheet he uses to organize case assignments, and reaches for his glasses.

Ten minutes later, he’s tucking his glasses into his breast pocket as he half-jogs down the back staircase.

Deep down, he knows he’s being irrational—that he’s assuming from Bruce’s messy hair and the urgency in his tone that something’s seriously _wrong_ —but not even the most logical corners of his mind are able to keep him from pushing open the doors to Judge Brassels’s courtroom. The gallery’s empty aside from a security officer and a few hand-wringing family members, and Phil only really realizes that Clint’s speaking after the doors swing shut behind him. He’s standing at the podium, his posture comfortable and his shoulders soft, while the defendant nervously shifts her weight. She’s probably twenty-four, pretty in a plain way, but she wilts under the weight of Clint’s even gaze.

Phil stops and sits in the second-last row of seats, caught up for a moment in Clint’s easy (if slightly disingenuous) smile. “You described Mister Piercy as ‘running up to your car all of a sudden,’ right?”

The defendant nods. “Yes.”

“And he threw the bag into the back seat?”

“Yes.”

“A bag that you said looked like it was filled with—DVDs, right?”

She shifts her weight slightly, her throat bobbing. “Or video games,” she corrects.

Clint flips a page on his legal pad. “DVDs or video games, right,” he echoes, and Phil knows from his tone that it’s a stalling tactic, an attempt to placate the nervous defendant. “And you said he asked you to take the bag off mall property until he called you, yes?”

The woman on the stand tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “He didn’t exactly say that.”

“But that’s what you testified to just a couple minutes ago, isn’t it?” Clint presses, and her shoulders slump slightly. “Your attorney asked whether Mister Piercy said anything to you, and you told the court that he asked you to leave with the bag. I think you even said he told you to ‘leave ASAP.’ Correct?” The defendant casts her eyes down into her lap, and Clint leans forward slightly. “Correct, Miss Lennon?”

“You need to answer,” Judge Brassels says.

Lennon nods unevenly. “That’s what he said, yeah. But I didn’t know the games were stolen, I just—”

“Nothing further, your honor,” Clint says the very second her voice starts to trail off, and Phil knows from the way Brassels’s head bobs that Clint’s just successfully proven his case.

Heimdall rises from his seat almost immediately, ready to rehabilitate his client’s self-sabotaging testimony, but Phil misses his first couple questions because he’s too busy watching Clint. Clint spots him in the back and smiles, his whole face lighting up, and Phil forces himself to swallow down his uncertainty and smile back. For a split-second, the room belongs to them—not as attorneys, but as two people who love one another—but then, the moment passes and Clint slides back down into his chair. Still, Phil studies the line of his shoulders and the tanned skin of his neck, and he counts himself lucky that of all the people in the universe, Clint picked _him_ as a worthy spouse.

He and Clint weathered last summer together, Phil reminds himself. They faced down their worst instincts, the ones that almost broke them into pieces, and somehow, they still climbed out unscathed. A little bruised, maybe, but stronger in the long run.

Whatever mystery Bruce’s brought to their doorstep, whatever ghost that’s nipping at Bruce’s heels and that requires both Phil and Clint to vanquish— They can handle that. They’ve handled worse.

At least, Phil hopes. 

After the probation revocation hearing’s finally over and a wet-faced Miss Lennon walks out of the courtroom with her family and a very stern warning that she is one more screw-up from serving out her full seventeen-month jail sentence, Brassels calls a recess. The remaining few people all rise from their seats as the judge exits, and by the time Clint twists to face the bar that separates the well of the courtroom from the gallery, Phil’s already reaching over it to catch his elbow. His surprised grin feels like a gift, but it falters the very second that his eyes land on Phil’s face.

“We okay?” Clint asks, his brow furrowing. “And please don’t say Hill went into labor already, ‘cause I bet on Steve’s birthday and—”

“Bruce showed up at my office about twenty minutes ago,” Phil cuts in, and he watches as confusion clouds Clint’s usually clear vision. He sighs and shakes his head. “He couldn’t—or maybe wouldn’t—tell me what he wanted, but he said he needed to talk to both of us. I thought you could text him when you’re done in here, see if he’ll hand over any more details.”

Clint stares at Phil for a few seconds before he nods uncertainly. “I’ll try,” he says, “but Bruce is pretty shitty about checking his phone during docket day. Last time Amy melted down at school, they pretty much played phone tag until the girl clerk—”

Phil almost rolls his eyes. “Jemma Simmons,” he corrects.

“—brought him an actual note.” The flicker of amusement in his eyes only lasts until he purses his lips. “I’ll text.”

“It’s probably nothing,” Phil says, his fingers flexing against Clint’s elbow, “but—”

“You can never be too careful,” Clint agrees, and his mouth twitches into the smallest ghost of a smile when Phil nods.

They linger together for just a beat or two longer, neither of them exactly sure how to end the conversation—or worse, neither of them exactly sure how to weather the little storm of nervousness that wells up in both their stomachs. But before Phil can string together another reassurance or apologize for saddling Clint with some of his own fears, Hogun blows into the courtroom with his client. “That’s my cue,” Clint says with a rueful half-grin, and Phil snorts a laugh as he finally releases his husband’s arm.

Except the second Phil starts to turn away, Clint hooks two fingers in the front pocket of his suit coat, yanks him hard enough that his thighs press hard into the bar, and kisses him square on the mouth.

The kiss is short and to the point, almost sweet in its efficiency, but Phil immediately recognizes it for what it is: a grabby-handed demand for reassurance. Clint smiles wryly, trouble-maker that he is, and Phil heaves a very showy sigh. “How unprofessional of you,” he deadpans.

Clint waggles his eyebrows. “Learned it from the best, sir,” he returns, and they both pretend that his fingers don’t linger in Phil’s pocket before they step apart.

 

==

 

The sun’s high over the park across the street from the judicial complex when Bruce drags his fingers through his hair and says, “You need to call your brother.”

His voice is quiet, almost resigned, but Clint still jolts like he’s just touched a livewire. The park’s full of children from one of the local summer day camps, and laughter ripples through the warm June day as a girl named Sadie is trapped by the opposing Red Rover line. She clings to one of the boys who stopped her, her face red but beaming, and Phil realizes too late that he’s using their game as a distraction from reality.

A shiver runs down his spine as he twists away. Next to him, Clint digs his hands into his pockets. “What do you mean, I need to call my brother?”

“I mean you need to call Barney,” Bruce replies. “The sooner, the better.”

They’d waited a painful two and a half hours for Bruce to finish his morning hearings and emerge from the back stairwell, but the second Phil’d stopped him in the hallway, the other man’d shaken his head. “Not here,” he’d said quietly, and Phil’d frowned until Bruce’d flicked eyes over his shoulder. Steve and Maria’d stood not ten feet away, their heads bent over a case file. Phil’s stomach had clenched in something like dread. “We’ll meet out front. Maybe walk over to the park.”

He’d frowned. “Bruce, I don’t—”

Bruce’d cut him off with a tiny shake of his head. “Let me tell Tony and Jane where I’ll be. I’ll meet you downstairs.”

Clint’d frozen when Phil’d relayed the message, his whole body tensing. And even now, out in the glaring summer sun, he holds himself coiled and tight. A runner at the blocks, Phil thinks, or Atlas balancing the world.

He touches the small of Clint’s back, and Clint flinches. But when Phil starts to back away, Clint reaches out and catches his wrist. The hand-squeeze feels mostly like a silent apology.

When he stays quiet for a few beats too long, Phil sighs. “Let’s assume we call Barney like you’re telling us to,” he says, and Bruce raises his eyebrows. “What’s are we going to find out?”

Bruce’s throat bobs. “I can’t—”

“Don’t bullshit us.” Anger rattles in the back of Clint’s throat, and when Phil glances over, he’s not surprised to see his husband curling his hands into fists. He splays his fingers over Clint’s back, a pathetic attempt to calm him, but the second Bruce ducks his head, Clint’s jaw clenches. “You’re not the cryptic asshole in the group. Tony, sure. Sometimes Natasha. But you’re better than that. You tell it like it is. And far as I can tell, this is _not_ the time to start—”

“Wanting to tell you details is different than being _able_ to,” Bruce breaks in, and Clint immediately snaps his mouth shut. For a moment, the two men stare at each other—Clint with his bunched shoulders and marble-carved jawline, Bruce with his nervous fingers and soft posture—but finally, Bruce sighs. “I’m probably committing an ethical violation by talking to you right now. I don’t know. But I wanted to be fair to you, and part of that means coming out here and telling you—both of you—that you need to call Barney.”

There’s a long pause, longer than necessary, before Phil’s able to collect his thoughts enough to wet his lips. “I don’t—”

Bruce shakes his head. “That’s all I can say.”

Clint scowls. “At least tell us if this is about—”

“Clint, that’s _all_ I can say.” For the first time since they stepped outside, there’s a hardness to Bruce’s tone, and the finality of it all digs its talons into the softest part of Phil’s belly. Next to him, Clint’s posture starts to soften. “Call Barney,” Bruce says again, quieter this time. “Reach out to him. The sooner you do, the better.”

Phil watches his husband’s jaw work. “Why?” Clint finally asks.

Bruce digs his hands into his pockets. “Because if you don’t reach out to him first,” he answers, “somebody else will.”

 

==

 

When Phil turns off the paved road and into Colier Woods trailer park three days later, the sun’s just starting to set.

He squints into the glare of the low-hanging orange sun, his eyes burning even with his sunglasses on, and even then, the light’s so bright and blinding that he almost misses the first bend in the rough gravel road. He jerks the steering wheel, overcorrecting, and his tires slide on the loose rocks before he regains control. He swears under his breath, his heart in his throat, and slows the car to a snail’s crawl. 

He’s usually not a speed demon—no, he leaves that particular title to his husband and Tony Stark in equal measure—but he’d left work at a breakneck speed two hours earlier and still feels like he’s flying. Like he’s racing along an unfamiliar track, toward a finish line he can’t quite see.

Toward Barney, who’s not contacted his probation officer in almost six weeks. Barney, who’s quit his job at Home Depot without any warning, and who is utterly and completely missing in action.

The occasional jolts of worry from meeting with Bruce on Tuesday are now a steady current, one that buzzes consistently under Phil’s skin and leaves him jittery. Even as he pulls into a visitor spot and steps out into the shade of the _Colier Woods Mobile Home Park: Now Under New Management!_ sign, he feels it coursing through him. It rattles his fillings as he tosses his suit coat into the back seat and twitches through his fingers as he rolls up his sleeves.

Worse, it increases about ten-fold when he locks his car and listens to the tell-tale alarm beat fade into absolute, pin-drop silence. The trailer park is usually noisy, like a living creature; the shouts of children playing and the thrumming bass from car stereos serve as its unsteady but unrelenting pulse. Today, there’s only the hum of air conditioning units and the pitiful bark of a single dog to greet him. 

Phil draws in a deep breath, steeling himself against the quiet as he starts down the winding dirt path to Barney’s trailer.

And he almost leaps out of his skin when, three seconds later, his cell phone rings. 

“I hope you told Sitwell that he owes me,” private investigator Isabelle Hartley complains down the phone, and Phil exhales hard at the familiar cadence of her voice. “Sticking my nose into anything that’s even _remotely_ connected with that trailer park is worse than poking a hornet’s nest, and I’m allergic to hornets.”

Phil snorts. “And here, I thought you owed _me_ a favor.”

“Victoria runs one red light, and I spend the next five years hearing about it.” He grins, almost chuckling to himself, but Isabelle just sighs. “Anyway, about your— Wait. Where are you right now?”

“Out.”

“Phil, please don’t tell me you’re at the park.”

He hangs a left at a dilapidated trailer with a boarded-up front window. “Okay, I won’t.”

“Dammit, Coulson, what part of _they’re going to think you’re a suit and close ranks_ did you not understand?” 

Phil swears he can hear Hartley seething down the line. He purses his lips to keep from grinning. “To be fair, you haven’t exactly given me anything to go on, here.”

“Only because I’ve come up empty-handed.” The resignation in her tone catches him off guard, and he stops in the middle of the empty footpath. She sighs. “One of my employees still has a few friends in the area, and from what she tells me, nobody’s seen or heard from your brother-in-law in at least the last week. Said his girlfriend’s been gone even longer. And before you ask: those two snippets are the sum total of everything they’ve been willing to tell her.”

Phil frowns. “Even though she knows them?”

“Knows them? She graduated high school with about half the current residents. But yeah.” There’s a long, heavy pause, and Phil wipes his brow with the back of his hand while he waits for Isabelle to fill the silence. “She said the whole park’s been going through inspects and management changes,” she adds after a few more seconds. “She thinks they’re a little spooked. And you know as well as I do that in communities like this—”

“You’re either part of the inner circle or way, _way_ outside it,” he finishes. She snorts a confirmation, and he drops his hand back to his side. “Well, thanks for trying. It was worth a shot.”

“This mean we’re finally even for Victoria’s ticket?”

Phil smirks. “And here, I thought you wanted Jasper to owe you the favor,” he returns, and she laughs as he hangs up the phone.

Without Isabelle’s voice ringing in his ear, the trailer park feels even more deserted than before, and he catches himself picking up his pace as he continues down the path. Elsewhere in the city, Clint’s meeting with— Actually, to be honest, Phil’s not certain _who_ Clint’s meeting. He’d lost track of the tenuous links between individuals halfway through Clint’s explanation, but either way, his husband’s drinking coffee with a distant friend (or cousin) who just might know where Barney’s disappeared to. 

The word _disappeared_ settles heavy on Phil’s shoulders. It reminds him of bad Friday night television and dog-eared mystery novels. Worse, it belongs in those places, not in his life.

The air conditioner closest to the path clicks on suddenly, and Phil jerks so hard in surprise that he almost steps off the path.

If he half-jogs the rest of the way to Barney’s, well. Nobody can really blame him for that.

Barney’s trailer is quiet and dark when Phil walks up to it, and he barely hesitates before he springs up the front steps and hammers on the door. The little porch Clint and Barney built last fall hardly rattles under his weight, and the drapes that Barney’s girlfriend Ally hung block most of his view through the front window. Still, he rubs the grime off the glass and squints as he peers inside, scanning for any signs of life. Other than a couple glasses sitting on the coffee table, the place looks deserted. Clean, but abandoned.

He rests his head against the window frame and sighs. His eyes are still slowly drifting shut when a quiet voice asks, “Mister Coulson?”

He whips around in surprise, and the woman behind him immediately raises both her hands. She’s wearing a printed scrub top with plain bottoms, her long hair tied back in a ponytail, and she steps back as Phil blinks down at her. She’s pretty, but there’s lines around her eyes that reveal her age—and worse, he thinks after a beat, her exhaustion.

All at once, he recognizes her, and his shoulders soften. “Miss Silva.”

“I thought you might not recognize me,” Jordan Silva-Riberio’s mother Anissa says as she lowers her hands, and Phil forces himself to smile as he steps down off the porch. There’s still something tight and guarded in her posture—something defensive, Phil thinks uncertainly—but she smiles back as she accepts his outstretched hand. “I know you and Clint come around to visit Barney, sometimes, but the rest of us—”

“Avoid lawyers like the plague?” Phil teases.

She snorts. “I wanted to say ‘leave the Barton business to the Bartons,’ but you’re not wrong about you being a lawyer.” Phil’s brow tightens into something like a frown, but she ignores it as she glances up at the empty trailer. “You’re looking for Barney, aren’t you?”

“If I can find him, yeah.” She nods offhandedly, and he rolls his lips together. “Your rules about lawyers and Bartons aside, you wouldn’t happen to know where—”

“We were friends, once,” Anissa cuts him off, and he watches all her fine lines tighten as she peers at the trailer—and then, at the sun setting just behind it. “I don’t know how much Clint told you about us—about this place, really, since he wanted so bad to forget all of us existed—but him, me, Barney, Jordan’s dad . . . We all ran together. All used to be friends.” She shakes her head. “The last couple months, I’ve started to wonder whether we ever knew each other at all. We sure as hell don’t anymore.”

Phil swallows. “Barney included?”

“Barney most of all, some days.” Something like anger strikes through her tone, but the second Phil opens his mouth to follow up, she twists back toward him and offers him a tiny, glimmering smile. “Ally took off a couple weeks ago,” she says. “I’m not sure where—Ally never liked it here much, thought we were mostly trash—but Barney, he only left a few days ago. No word to any of us, not even my mom.”

“Your mom?” he asks, blinking.

“She helps out when people pick up second jobs. Cleans, feeds babies, you name it. Charges less than a daycare or a cleaning lady, and it mostly keeps the new management from pounding down our door.” She shrugs, her earrings glinting. “We’re keeping an eye out on Barney’s place, though. Just in case.”

A million different worst-case scenarios all flood into Phil’s head, but he tramples over all of them to spend a minute just studying Anissa’s expression. Her face is thinner than two years ago, her hair messier, but she still boasts the same strong jaw and the same unflappable faith. It’s easy for him to imagine how she survived her boyfriend’s incarceration and her son’s death—and how, even now, she still returns to the same community every night after work.

Anissa, Barney, and everyone else who lives in the park, they’re from a different world than the one Phil’s known his whole life. It’s the same world that taught Clint his tenacity and loyalty, and for that, Phil’s eternally grateful.

But gratitude’s pretty useless against the worry that still rolls around in his stomach, or the empty trailer behind him.

His cell phone chimes, and he jerks out of his thoughts to discover that Anissa’s considering him just as carefully. He forces a smile that he knows won’t touch his eyes as he reaches for his back pocket. “Let me give you my card,” he offers, “and if Barney comes, back you can—”

“I still have your card from when Jordan died.” Anissa’s hands are cool but steady when they close around his, and he swallows thickly as the rest of his sentence sticks in the back of his throat. They stare at one another for a beat, neither of them filling the sudden silence; then, she shakes her head. “I’ll have my mom look out for Barney,” she says quietly, “and call you if she sees him. It’s the least I can do.”

He frowns. “And you?”

The corner of her mouth kicks into a tiny grin. “Double shifts keep me pretty busy, lately,” she replies, and gently squeezes his hand.

Even after Anissa disappears around the corner and down the path, Phil lingers in the shade cast by Barney’s trailer and the setting sun, hoping against hope that the man will just magically appear. He’s done it before, materializing on their doorstep after ignoring a dozen text messages about dinner or showing up at Phil’s favorite lunch spot just in the nick of time to talk about Clint’s birthday, and every time, Phil’s cursed his name for weeks before coming to appreciate Barney’s magic. Because deep down, there really is something magical about the Barton brothers, two boys who faced hell head-on and lived to tell the tale, and Phil—

Phil never expected to marry a man like Clint or gain a brother-in-law like Barney.

But even still, he’s terrified of losing that magic.

He’s halfway back to his car under a newly indigo sky when he remembers his cell phone. The lock screen boasts a new text message, and he hardly registers Clint’s name before he’s tapping in his code and pulling up their conversation stream. Most of their messages are mundane complaints about work or grocery requests—just yesterday, Clint asked for a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch and a papaya—but over the last few days, they’ve focused on Barney.

He flicks down to the latest message, and his heart drops into his stomach.

**Clint:** _nothing new and bobbi said she already reported everything she got to hartley. you should get a call sometime tonight. see you at home_

Phil draws in a deep breath and thumbs open the reply window. _We’ll find him_ , he returns, and just hopes that Clint waits until he’s home to call him out on the lie.

 

==

 

“I’m going to kill him,” Clint says, prowling across the living room floor. “The second we find his sorry ass, I’m going to kick the living _shit_ out of him for doing this.”

Phil sighs and rubs his palm over his two days of stubble. “Clint—”

“Who does this, Phil?” Clint demands, throwing up his hands. “Who disappears out of nowhere when he knows people are gonna be looking for him? That they’re gonna worry?” He shakes his head. “Worse, he either ditched Ally or he’s dragging her down with him, and that means—”

“I know.” Clint huffs out a hard breath and starts to twist away, but Phil reaches out and catches him by his shoulders. He jerks, the ghost of a struggle, but the second Phil tightens his grip, all the fight rushes out of him in one fell swoop. He leans close after that, his forehead tilting down to rest on Phil’s shoulder, and Phil threads his fingers through his messy hair. 

“I know,” he repeats, his lips close to Clint’s ears. “And I’m worried, too.”

Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbles across the sky, and Phil presses his cheek against Clint’s hair as he listens to the coming storm. They’ve lost their whole Saturday to searching for Barney—to doubling- and tripling-back to the places they’ve already visited—but no matter how many dark corners of Barney’s life they grope through, they remain empty-handed. Even now, standing in the living room and waiting for at least some of Clint’s frantic worry to seep out into the floorboards, Phil picks through their efforts with a fine-toothed comb, desperate for a new hint at Barney’s whereabouts. But as many times as they’ve driven through the trailer park, hiked through the woods around the park, or called old friends, Barney’s still a specter, a shadow they’re chasing all over Suffolk and Clarion County.

Really, the only new information they’ve discovered is that Barney’s picked up some petty charges in Clarion County—theft, possession of marijuana, fleeing law enforcement. And even then, when Phil and Clint pinned down Barney’s old friend Derek Tracy (nicknamed Trey, apparently) at a convenience store a couple miles from the trailer park, Trey’d laughed in their face. 

“You think that’s the biggest of his problems right now?” Trey’d demanded, shaking his head. “Shit, you don’t know anything about your brother, do you?”

Clint’d bristled, his jaw clenching, and he’d only relaxed when Phil’d touched his elbow. “We just need to know where he went,” he’d said calmly.

Trey’d snorted. “You’re not the only one who’s sayin’ that. Fact, you’re last in a _long_ fucking line.” He’d flicked a cigarette out of a pack and wedged it between his lips. “Either of you got a light?”

“You see him, you tell him to call me,” Clint’d said instead of answering, his voice low and flinty.

Trey’d shrugged. “Yeah, like I can make Big B do something he don’t want to do.”

They’d lingered at the convenience store for a good half-hour after Trey’d driven away, hoping to catch even the barest glimpse of Barney, Ally, or even Ally’s beaten-up old town car. The best they’d gotten was a text from Jasper containing contact information for Ally’s mother.

Ally’s mother had hung up the moment Phil’d introduced himself. When Clint’d tried on his own phone, she’d informed him that _your brother can rot in hell, far as I’m concerned_ before hanging up on him, too.

Worse, Bruce is still ignoring the couple dozen text messages and e-mails that Phil and Clint have sent him over the last twenty-four hours, a sure sign that—

The doorbell rings suddenly, and Clint’s whole body jerks like he’s been struck or stung. Phil grabs his arm—after all, he looks about ready to charge to the front door without a second thought—and for a second, they just stare at one another.

“Could be anyone,” Phil reminds him.

“Or Barney,” Clint returns, but Phil’s able to watch his demeanor shift until he’s calm. 

Well. Calmer, at any rate.

Melinda May holds up a canvas grocery bag the second the front door opens. “I brought my daughter’s last box of Peanut Butter Patties and a bottle of whiskey,” she greets.

Phil thanks whoever’s listening for Clint’s excellent poker face, because there’s no hint of disappointment on his face when he raises his eyebrows. “It good whiskey?” 

Melinda snorts. “Do I drink anything else?” she replies, and Clint actually flashes her a half-second grin as he props the door open.

“Skye Carson—who you probably both know as ‘that girl in IT with the questionable fashion choices’—ran Barney’s name and personal information in an attempt to hunt him down for the two of you,” she explains once they’ve cracked open the booze and returned to the living room, the cookies haphazardly arranged on a plate in the middle of the coffee table. Clint picks the chocolate off the edges of his, his eyes lowered; ever the picture of easy grace, Melinda ignores it to lean her elbows on her thighs. “Turns out, your brother’s smart enough not to leave much of a digital footprint. He’s tagged in the occasional Facebook picture, but he’s not documenting his whole life online like everyone else our age.”

Phil smirks. “Our age?” he repeats.

She narrows her eyes. “I brought you whiskey,” she reminds him, and they both pretend her mouth doesn’t twist at Clint’s snorted half-laugh. “Skye’s good,” she continues with a tiny shake of her head. “’Reformed hacker’ good, not that she wants to advertise that particular skill-set while she’s working for the county. If she’s not able to find your brother—”

“Then he’s in the wind,” Clint finishes. He flicks his half-mangled cookie back onto the plate before he scrubs his hand over his face. “You know, a year or two ago, I wouldn’t have given two shits about where my asshole brother wandered off to. Would’ve just accepted it as part of the whole Barney Barton experience. But after everything with my disciplinary case, with him and Ally figuring out their shit, with him coming to our _wedding_ . . . ” He sighs roughly, and Phil purses his lips at the hurt that rattles through Clint—and worse, that lingers in the back of his throat even after he shakes his head. “I thought he’d finally figured his shit out, and now we’re back at square one.”

“If it helps, Skye didn’t find anything about why Banner’s the one warning you to call your brother, either,” Melinda chimes in, and both Phil and Clint frown as they glance over at her. She shrugs. “She dug up the new charges in Clarion County and some of the stuff from his probation violation case here—which I didn’t read, because the last thing we need is somebody banging on your door about ethical violations and conflicts of interest—but nothing that’d link him to what Banner does for a living. So unless there’s something you’re not telling me . . . ”

The sentence dangles heavily between them for all of two seconds before Clint’s cell phone buzzes loudly on the nearby end table. He almost upends his whiskey as he grabs for it; the second he spots the caller’s name, he’s on his feet. “Speaking of Bruce,” he says, and he swipes to answer the call before he’s even out of the living room.

Phil waits until the back door bangs shut behind Clint before he sighs. “I don’t think Bruce will tell him anything,” he informs Melinda, “but he seems to think—”

“What aren’t you telling me?” she interrupts, and Phil reaches for a cookie to avoid her curious, piercing gaze. She sighs. “Phil, you called me for help, and I’ve done everything I can. But if you have other information—information that might refine Skye’s searches, _real_ information—you need to tell me.”

“Except there are stories that aren’t mine to tell.” Melinda’s still peering at him when he ditches his cookie—the same cookie Clint mutilated, actually—on a napkin to glance over at her, and he spends a few seconds studying her face. In the fifteen years they’ve known one another, they’ve both aged and grayed, but she’s still as sharp and beautiful as the first time she stepped into his office at the ethics commission. And more than that, he still feels drawn to her the same way, that first spark of friendship still burning bright after all this time.

He sighs and shakes his head. “Clint and Barney spent most their lives learning to be a family,” he finally says. “Barney’s just had a lot more reasons to work on it, lately.”

She frowns. “Phil, I don’t understand what you’re—”

“If you think about it long enough, you will,” he replies, and realization dawns on her face just as Clint swears loud enough that it echoes in from the back yard.

 

==

 

“I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to do.”

Lightning streaks across the sky, bright as sunrise but a thousand times sharper, and Phil’s barely able to draw in a breath before thunder crackles all around them. Not three feet away, on the other side of the screen door, stands Barney Barton. He’s soaked to the bone and dripping all over the front porch, his clothes and hair plastered to his body, and for the first time, Phil’s able to see him as Clint once described him: a skinny husk of a man, exhausted and strung-out, swaying in the wind. 

Except Barney still boasts the muscle mass he acquired from working in the lumber department at Home Depot, and his eyes are blood shot from a lack of sleep instead of a lack of something stronger. What’s more, his waterproof spring jacket is bundled up against his shoulder, and every time the thunder roars, he holds it a little tighter.

Clint, who’d woken up with a shout at the sound of fists on the front door, stares at his brother a though he’s a stranger, and for a moment, neither of them moves. Phil wonders for a second whether his husband’s even breathing; he’s drawn up tight, his shoulders steeled like he’s waiting for a physical blow. On their doorstep, Barney shifts his weight, and his balled-up jacket shifts with him.

The lightning flashes again, highlights the dark circles under Barney’s eyes and every crag and cranny on his face, and he sighs. “We’re in trouble, okay?” he finally says. “We’re in trouble, I don’t know where the fuck Ally’s gone, and I just—”

There’s more to the sentence, Phil knows—the desperation in Barney’s voice is a dead giveaway, never mind the helplessness trapped in his expression—but the next loud crack of thunder interrupts him. It’s the loudest yet, the kind that rattles Phil’s filings and shakes the house right down to its foundation—and immediately, the bundle against Barney’s shoulder starts screaming. The crying’s hysterical, almost uncontrolled, and Barney immediately shoves the jacket away to bury his nose in a head full of messy red-brown hair.

“Please,” he says over his son’s crying, his eyes drifting past Phil to search Clint’s face. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, and—”

Clint hesitates for exactly one beat before shakes his head. “You can’t keep him out in the rain,” he says, and opens the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The newest MPU posting schedule, which I just completed earlier today, can be found [here](http://the-wordbutler.tumblr.com/post/124881075167/and-now-the-latest-mpu-posting-schedule-which-i). I hope to catch up on comments this weekend, too, because I feel massively guilty for being the absentee author lately.


	3. P.J.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Phil and Clint deal with the aftermath of Barney’s unexpected arrival. Some aspects of his visit, they expect. Other aspects are surprises they’re not prepared for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not have children, so I rely very heavily on the internet to help me with some things. Please forgive me for any creative license weirdness that happens in this or any other chapter.
> 
> Thanks as always to my wonderful beta-readers, Jen and saranoh, who keep me honest--or, at the very least, keep my grammar acceptable.

“You’re okay,” Phil murmurs, rocking Barney’s son—his nephew—against his shoulder as another crack of thunder rattles the windowpanes. “I know you’re scared, but you’re okay.”

The baby pauses just long enough to blink red, tear-rimmed eyes before he starts screaming again.

Phil cups his tiny head in his palm and strokes soothing fingers over his messy hair. “I know, sweetheart,” he whispers, and tips his head close. “I know.”

Elsewhere in the house, a cabinet rattles louder than even the aftershocks of the thunderclap, and Phil grits his teeth as his nephew’s howling doubles in volume. Patrick James Barton is nine months old, all chubby limbs and messy red-brown hair, but he’s old enough to feed off the emotions around him and know when something’s not quite right. And since the tension in the house bears down them both like a physical pressure—like the half-second of calm between thunder and lightning—Phil’s sure the baby’s picking up on that.

Plus, he’s exhausted, damp from the rain, and fighting against sleep.

Phil presses his lips to his forehead and shushes him as he bounces him around the guest room.

A bark of angry laughter carries down the hallway, cutting through the sound of rain on the roof and Patrick’s panicked crying, and Phil closes his eyes like he’s bracing for a physical blow. Within seconds of Barney crossing the threshold, Clint’d turned on him, all bared teeth and barely contained anger. “At least let him calm the baby,” Phil’d urged, and seconds later, he’d found himself holding the screaming nine-month-old while the brothers retreated into the kitchen to hash out their differences.

Or, apparently, to argue and throw flatware, because the clatter of metal against the kitchen sink jerks Patrick out of his exhausted, tear-soaked daze. He rubs the back of his hand against his damp face and howls again, this time with hiccups.

Phil sighs and shifts Patrick around until he’s cradled against Phil’s chest. “You’re having the worst night of your tiny life, aren’t you?” he asks, and Patrick at least muffles some of his cries by shoving his hand in his mouth.

Phil studies his tiny face as he walks loops around the guest room, a welcome distraction from the storms inside and outside his home. Truth be told, he’s only met Patrick twice: once at his baptism, and again when he’d driven to the trailer park to invite Barney to the wedding. The first time, he’d lingered at the back of the church, his hands in his pockets as he’d watched Ally, Barney, and Patrick’s two godparents—both cousins of Ally’s, he’d learned later, a long-married couple with three kids under six—recite their promises to the tiny baby and to God. The second time, Ally’d glared at him across the living room as she’d soothed her son to sleep, and Phil’d smiled sheepishly before inviting Barney to talk outside.

“Sorry,” Barney’d muttered as soon as they’d closed the door. “Ally, she’s not a big fan of Clint anyway, and with you—”

Phil’d smiled and shrugged away his concern. “Not all my in-laws need to like me,” he’d promised, and Barney’d snorted when he’d clapped him on the shoulder.

On that fall day, Patrick’d been tiny and half-asleep, his head resting on his mother’s shoulder.

Now, he stares up at Phil with big brown eyes, and Phil brushes hair off his forehead.

Clint rarely talks about Patrick at home, even when he returns from one of his almost-monthly dinners with his big brother, and Phil— Well, most the time, Phil respects that. He knows Clint’s mostly trying to save his feelings, to protect him from Ally’s ever-shifting favor and, maybe more importantly, from the hole that might come with being separated from the youngest of his nephews. After all, Phil’s family treated Clint as one of their own from that very first Christmas, embracing him as just one more rowdy uncle to love.

And then, there’s Ally, a woman who’s family in all but the legally binding documents . . . and who treats Phil like a malignant mass, a cancer that’s waiting to be excised.

If Phil’s honest with himself, that’s why his heart hurts. Not because of Patrick, but because of the way Clint pauses every time he leaves to visit Barney and the guilt that follows him home. 

Another cabinet—or maybe that’s a kitchen chair—rattles, and Phil huffs out a breath. In his arms, Patrick stirs but stays asleep, his tear-streaked face nuzzled in close to Phil’s t-shirt. Phil smiles down at him and shakes his head. “You and I joined one hell of a family, buddy,” he informs his nephew.

Patrick smacks his lips and sighs, but stays asleep.

Phil spends longer than is probably necessary baby-proofing the guest bed with rolled-up blankets and conveniently placed pillows, but when he’s finished, Patrick sprawls out like a starfish and sleeps like the dead. He hardly flinches at the next few thunderclaps—or at the third slammed cabinet, this one loud enough that Phil actually jumps—and Phil wonders for a moment how many loud, chaotic nights this baby’s already lived through. He strokes his round little belly for a few seconds until he’s absolutely sure he won’t wake up, and then backs out of the bedroom.

He switches off the light but leaves the door open. Just in case.

“Are you even listening to yourself?” Clint demands as Phil rounds the corner into the kitchen, and Sandy almost trips him in her race to run and hide. “After everything we went through, do you really think—”

Across the island from him, his brother rolls his eyes. “Shit, it’s a week, it’s not—”

“And a week’s a lot when you’re nine months old and barely know your own dad!” Clint throws up his hands and immediately starts to pace, his whole body tense like a snake ready to strike.

Phil knows from experience that he only carries himself that way when he’s on the defensive. When he’s scared, he thinks, and draws in a breath.

“Should I ask what we’re talking about?” he breaks in, and both brothers jerk violently in his direction. He steps back, his hands raised, and he’s not really surprised when Clint’s shoulders relax slightly. “The baby’s asleep, so if you don’t mind bringing me up to speed—”

Clint snorts and shakes his head. “Speed’s not hard to reach, boss,” he replies, and there’s an edge even to the reliable old nickname. “Barney wants us to take Patty—”

“P.J.,” Barney corrects tightly.

“—for a week while he goes on some kinda wild goose chase to find his fucking girlfriend.”

“It’s not a fuckin’ wild goose chase, it’s—” Barney starts, but he huffs out a hard breath the second Phil’s eyes land on his face. All at once, the anger seeps out of him, and he’s once again the helpless, exhausted man from their porch a half-hour earlier. Because under the tangled rat’s nest of hair and the damp clothes that still cling on like a second skin, Phil’s able to see the ghost of Barney Barton, the echo of the guy who’d danced with Phil’s niece Clara at their wedding reception after the girl’d informed him that he looked lonely. 

Phil notices that loneliness now, but somehow, it’s deeper than whatever Clara noticed. 

He purses his lips, and Barney drags fingers through his messy hair. “Ally took off,” he says, intent enough on Phil that he misses Clint’s dramatic little eye-roll on the other side of the kitchen. “One day, I woke up, and she wasn’t there. No forwarding address, no clue where she went, and I still can’t find her. But she’s got the car, the car seat, all of our financial paperwork and P.J.’s stuff, and all I’ve got is—”

“New charges in Clarion County?” 

Phil shoots Clint a sharp, warning glance, but Clint ignores him to jab a finger in his brother’s direction. “Thought I wouldn’t find out, right? Probably covered it up, ‘cause even though the online filing system didn’t say how old the charges are, the case number’s way too low for them to be brand new.” He drops his arm with a disgusted little huff. “You know, fool me twice and whatever, but I figured when you told me after my wedding that we were gonna act like family, I should at least believe you before—”

“I fucked up, okay?” Barney interrupts, throwing his arms out. For the first time all night—or at least, in the last few minutes—there’s open, obvious hurt on his face, and Phil’s stomach twists itself into knots. His brother-in-law, though, just shakes his head. “You want the whole dirty truth, the reason I’ve been avoiding you all week? It’s ‘cause me and Ally got fired. Both of us, at the same time, all at once, like some kinda bad luck train wreck.” 

Clint’s mouth falls open, not in protest but in surprise, and Barney rolls his lips together for a second before he casts a desperate glance over at Phil. Phil raises his eyebrows, silently urging him to continue.

Barney shrugs. “Happened out of nowhere,” he says, “and I don’t know why. Maybe ‘cause it’s _us_ , you know? Can’t catch a break, no matter how hard we try. But either way, we had to keep food on the table, keep paying for our lot at the park, and so we made a couple bad choices. Choices I’m trying to fix.” He drops his hands back to the kitchen island and leans heavily on them. “I got a job working summer construction. They’ll keep me even with those charges. But I gotta find Ally first.”

Clint crosses his arms over his broad chest. “Because she’s got some paperwork?”

“Because she’s P.J.’s mom.” There’s something helpless in Barney’s tone, and Clint’s shoulders soften slightly. His brother rubs a hand over his stubble and shakes his head again. “I can’t do it alone, okay? I’m not made of whatever sent you packing the second you finished high school. Ally and me, we’re a team, and I’ve gotta figure out where she went.”

Silence sweeps into the room for the first time since Barney arrived, and Phil only really glances away from him when he hears Clint sigh. As Phil watches, the fight seeps out of his husband like a receding tide until the anger is replaced by utter exhaustion. He considers crossing the kitchen—gathering the other man in his arms, kissing his temple, soothing him—but he’s pretty sure Clint’s forgotten he’s in the room.

Instead, all of Clint’s attention is focused on his brother.

Phil draws in a breath. “How much trouble is Ally in?” he asks.

Clint jerks his head in Phil’s direction, ready to chime in—maybe even to chide Phil about the question—but Barney beats him to the punch with a hard sigh. “You gonna believe me if I say we’re in just about the same amount?”

“No.”

“Then a whole lot more. Which is maybe why she ran in the first place.” Clint groans and rubs a hand over his face, but Barney immediately casts him a pleading look. “You think you’re the only one who can talk sense into me? Keep me from going off the deep end? Well, I’m the only one who can do that for her. That’s why I need you to take P.J. To let me do this.”

The quiet sneaks in again, subtler this time, and Phil drops his hands into his pockets as he watches the standoff between the two brothers. They don’t exactly lock eyes or square shoulders—no, they’re past that part of the fight, beyond all the posturing and growling—but Phil knows they feel every inch of the ten or twelve feet between them. Thunder rumbles in the background, low and distant, and it’s only after the last grumbles fade away that Clint sighs and shakes his head.

“Bruce said—”

“That the curly-haired child welfare guy?” Barney immediately asks, and Clint loses one second to stunned staring before he nods. “Yeah, see, I knew that’d bite me in the ass. Ally’s mom called child services on me after she split. Said I wasn’t a fit parent, threatened to take P.J. Told me I’d get him back over my dead body.”

Phil frowns. “Is that why you left the trailer park?”

Barney shrugs. “That, and ‘cause of Ally.” Phil feels his brow tighten in time with Clint’s clenching jaw, but Barney either misses or ignores it. “Guy from the county called me and said he’d give me a couple days,” he continues. “I either needed to be ready to show him I had everything together, or I needed to ‘arrange alternative care’ until I had my shit in order.” He snorts bitterly. “‘Cause people in the park have tons of options for that kinda help.”

On the other side of the kitchen, Clint rolls his lips together. “Except you have us,” he points out.

Barney shoves his hands in his pockets and drops his eyes to the floor. “Yeah,” he says, “and that’s why it’s so important you take my son.”

 

==

 

“Wait, wait, back up a minute,” Nick Fury says the next afternoon, and Phil rubs his forehead. “You mean to tell me that in the last twenty-four hours, you acquired a baby?”

“‘Acquired’ isn’t exactly the word I’d use, but—”

“No, see, I think acquired is _exactly_ the right word,” Nick cuts him off, raising his hand, and Phil rolls his lips together. “Because unless I missed something, you just said that Barney Barton dropped his baby off at your house and disappeared off the face of this planet, leaving you as his designated babysitter for at least the next week.” He shrugs and leans back in his chair. “I wrong about that?”

Phil sighs. “No.”

“Then, as far as I’m concerned, that’s accidental baby acquisition. Pure and simple.”

His chair squeaks as he leans back a little further and folds his hands over his stomach, a regal gesture that’s slightly undermined by the fact he’s wearing jeans and a paint-stained t-shirt—and that the local NPR station’s playing a _This American Life_ rerun in the background. 

They stare at one another for a few more seconds before Phil finally slumps into one of the chairs across from Nick’s desk. “You are by far the worst friend I’ve ever had.”

“And you’re hanging onto a baby for your felonious brother-in-law, so I think we’re just about even,” Nick returns, and he laughs when Phil borrows a page from his husband’s big book of friendship and flips him off. 

Despite the storms that’d rocked the house all night and into the early hours of the morning, Sunday’d dawned hot, humid, and surprisingly sunny, and Phil’d slapped Clint’s wandering hands away three different times before either of their alarms finally chimed. Sunday mornings in their household usually promised lazy morning runs and lazier late-morning sex, but between the constant crackle of thunder and the Barney-sized interruption in the middle of their night, Phil’d wanted nothing more than to sleep.

He’d relayed that very thing to Clint in a cotton-mouthed, sleep-drunk voice, and his husband’d laughed before kissing him and rolling out of bed.

Three minutes later, he’d sworn loud enough to wake both Phil _and_ their nephew, and Phil’d rocketed out of bed with his heart in his throat.

“That fucking _asshole_!” Clint’d raged once Phil’d staggered into a pair of (probably not his own) boxer shorts and stumbled into the guest room, and he’d needed to rub his eyes a half-dozen times just to focus on the note Clint’d shoved in his direction. Even with Patrick—P.J., Phil’d corrected himself—clinging to his shoulder, Clint’d paced the room like a wild animal, his barely contained anger radiating through the room and distracting Phil from his squinting attempt to read Barney’s chicken scratch.

Eventually, though, he’d made out enough to catch the general gist of the letter. And then, his heart’d dropped into his stomach.

“He said leaving while P.J. could watch would be too hard, which I almost buy,” Phil admits as he leans his head back against the plush fabric of Nick’s overstuffed visitor chair. “At the same time, this is his baby we’re talking about, and I’d like to think that Barney’s at least a little, I don’t know—”

“Paternal?” Nick suggests.

“Reasonable.” Phil sighs again, shaking his head. “I spent two-thirds of the morning calming Clint down after his little ‘my brother is an asshole’ tirade. In a lot of ways, I think he’s more upset than P.J., and that’s saying something.” He closes his eyes and tries to ignore the exhaustion that immediately sweeps through him. “And before you ask, Barney’s definitely in the wind. I’ve left a half-dozen messages already, but so far? No response.”

Even with his eyes closed, Phil swears he can feel Nick’s scowl. “It’s noon.”

“What can I say? I work fast.” 

“I meant more that you’ve gotta give the guy a little more ‘benefit of the doubt’ leeway, but yeah, okay. Let’s talk about you.” Phil frowns slightly as he lifts his head, but Nick just narrows his one good eye. “You’ve got a baby nephew and a husband at home, probably crying about Barney, and you’re here at work. Alone. On a Sunday.”

Phil smirks slightly. “I could technically say the same thing about you.”

“And leave me to point out that at least one of my boys is still waiting for Uncle Phil to show up to their weekend baseball double headers?” Nick counters, and Phil’s tiny smile immediately falters. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

Phil snorts, a far cry from an actual laugh, and forces himself to shrug. “We’ve never had the baby at our house before,” he admits, and he ignores the way Nick’s whole face softens. “Ally’s never much liked either of us—me especially, but I think that’s just because Barney can’t use the ‘he’s blood’ defense to justify my visits—and we’re pretty unprepared. I told Clint I’d run out to grab the essentials and a couple of our case files, in case we’re not in tomorrow.”

Nick grins. “You really think you’re gonna make it to hearings when there’s a strange baby to cuddle at home?” he demands.

“No,” Phil admits, “but I think—or at least, _hope_ —that Barney’ll second-guess his decision and come back.”

The bare-faced honesty that creeps into his tone surprises even him, and across the desk, Nick stops grinning to roll his lips together. Phil’s spent his whole morning repeating the same mantra— _Barney’s a good dad, Clint, he’ll realize how bad an idea this is, he’ll come back_ —but for the first time, he realizes how desperately he wants to believe it. Ever since Laufeyson’d tricked Barney into almost ruining Clint’s career, the brothers have worked tirelessly to rebuild their relationship, mending the broken places with bits of twine and hope and finally learning to talk to one another. To laugh together, Phil thinks with a tiny smile, and to celebrate victories like newborn nephews and rowdy Nebraska weddings. Even when Barney violated his probation in November or December, Clint’d stood by him, and Phil’s terrified that this straw will be the one that breaks the camel’s back.

Because as much as Clint loves his brother, he remembers their father—and more than that, he remembers Harold-sized crater that lives in both their hearts.

“You think he’s bullshitting you?” Nick asks, and Phil jerks out of his thoughts to discover that his friend’s tilted forward in his chair, hands folded on his desk. When he blinks dumbly, Nick raises his eyebrows. “Barney said he and his girlfriend both were in big trouble. You think he’s lying?”

Phil scrubs a hand over yesterday’s stubble. “I don’t know.”

“Phil, the only person who’s better at sniffing out a lie at thirty paces is your husband. Far as I’m concerned, bullshit-detecting’s your goddamn superpower.” Phil snorts and rolls his eyes, but Nick’s gaze never wavers. “But since he’s blinded by the Barton light, I’m gonna ask you again: you think your brother-in-law’s bullshitting, or not?”

Phil sighs. “I don’t think he’s telling the whole truth, no,” he admits, and he’s not sure what he hates more: the way his whole body slumps like he’s just betrayed a family secret, or Nick’s tiny nod of approval. “He talked about Ally at first—about her running out on him and the baby, her taking their only car and pretty much all their legal paperwork—but the longer he talked . . . ” He struggles with the words for a second, his brow furrowing. “He didn’t bring up his new charges until Clint confronted him, but immediately, the story shifted. More about their money troubles, less about whatever dragged Ally away. And then, when Clint brought Bruce’s name into the picture—”

“Bruce as in Banner?” Nick breaks in, and Phil flinches for a split second before he gives in and nods. His friend’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, and Phil knows without a second thought that he’s already running worse-case workplace scenarios in his head. “You’re telling me that Banner’s involved with your brother-in-law’s kid?”

“Only tangentially,” Phil promises, and he promptly ignores the way Nick rolls his eye. “As far as I can tell, there’s no open case on P.J., no active reports. If anything, Bruce just helped the social worker steer Barney in our direction.” Nick’s gaze snaps back in his direction, and he raises his hands. “All with plausible ethical deniability, of course.”

Nick groans and shakes his head. “I knew Stark was gonna rub off on him the second they got married,” he grumbles.

“To be fair, I think Stark started rubbing off on him at least two or three months before he put a ring on it.” When Nick’s glare tightens, this time in disgust, he smiles. “Low-hanging fruit, Nick.”

“Just another thing I didn’t want to know about Stark and Banner’s sex life,” Nick returns, and this time, Phil actually laughs. 

They grin at each other for a minute or two after that, the June sunlight streaming in through the big picture windows behind Nick’s desk, and Phil only realizes after he exhales just how tense the last week’s really been. Sure, there’s a strange baby sleeping in his guest room (or, more likely, eating mashed bits of banana for breakfast, since the internet approved of that particular dietary option), but both that baby and his father are safe. And even if Barney really stays away for seven days— Well, when push comes to shove, a week’s not that long. Hell, their week off for the wedding flew by.

“You know that whatever you need, I’m here for you,” Nick says after a couple seconds, and Phil frowns slightly as he glances away from the window. “Far as I’m concerned, I owe you a whole lot of favors, and I don’t mind you cashing in on them.”

Phil swallows. “But?”

“But be careful. Barney Barton almost ruined his brother once, never mind the number he did on your relationship. I’m not sure I like the thought of you two wandering down that road again.”

Despite his better instincts (and the rising bolus of worry in the pit of his stomach), Phil smirks. “If I didn’t know better, Nick, I’d say you’re worried about me.”

“Me? Worried about your sorry ass?” Nick huffs out a breath, but Phil suspects he’s trying to hide the smile that’s tugging at the corners of his mouth. “If anything, I’m just trying to make sure Uncle Phil makes it to one of those double headers. Otherwise, Alex is gonna whine the whole rest of the summer, and I’m just not built for that kind of _drama_.”

Phil laughs about Nick’s emphasis on the word drama—never mind his brief but very effective use of jazz hands—all the way down to his car, but the second he tosses his case files in the back seat and climbs in, the other part of the conversation wipes his laughter away. He knows Nick’s right to remind him about Barney’s near-cataclysmic impact on Clint’s life during the Killgrave trial, but at the same time, they’re all different men now. He and Clint’d ripped their relationship apart at the seams only to build it back up again, and now, they’re happily married. Barney and Clint talk regularly, grab monthly dinners, and swap stupid childhood memories over beers and basketball games. And Barney himself, well—

Barney’s a father now, loving and devoted, and he’s willing to leave his son with relatives in order to protect him. Even his decision to leave in the dead of night doesn’t change the fact that, overall, he’s a good parent. A man who’d rather sacrifice his time with his son than risk losing that time all together.

He knows Clint views this as a weakness, a sign that Barney’s forgotten all their years in the orphanage and with Trick Chisolm.

He’s also pretty sure Clint’s wrong about that.

The house is quiet when he shoulders in through the front door, his arms so full of Target bags that he walks in sideways. He lifts his left foot to avoid the cat—after all, Sandy always greets him at the door and zigzags between his legs—but to his shock, no cat appears. He frowns as he closes the door behind him, very nearly calling out for Clint, but then, he hears it:

A snore.

It echoes out into the front hall, and even as Phil rolls his eyes, he smiles to himself. Leave it to Clint to fall asleep after settling their nephew (who’d still been crying off-and-on when Phil’d left the house that morning) for a nap. He pictures the scene in his head as he abandons the bags just inside the door—Clint stretched out on the couch, one hand on the floor—but even then, he’s not prepared for what greets him when he walks into the living room.

Because, sure, Clint’s asleep on the couch just as Phil predicted. 

But sprawled out across Clint’s chest and stomach is a peaceful, sleeping P.J.

Despite the pile of bags waiting behind him, Phil somehow loses entire long minute standing in the doorway between the hall and the living room, the whole of his attention caught up in admiring his husband. Instead of dangling a hand on the floor, Clint rests his big palm in the middle of P.J.’s back, and his wedding band glints in the sunlight until it almost hurts Phil’s eyes. The baby rises and falls with Clint’s steady breaths, his tiny lips parted as he drools on Clint’s t-shirt. Neither flinches at Clint’s snoring, either, a sure sign that they are both blue-blooded Barton boys.

From her place at Clint’s feet, Sandy raises her head, blinks once, and immediately falls back asleep.

Somewhere in the pit of Phil’s stomach, a feeling he regularly tries to ignore blooms to life, and he swallows around the desperate warmth that floods through his chest. Deep down, Phil’s always believed that Clint’d be an excellent father if the opportunity ever arose. He’s thought it a thousand times already, and he’ll think it a thousand more times before they’re old and gray.

But seeing Clint asleep in their house with a baby on his chest— Somehow, that’s the thing that steals Phil’s breath and lodges his heart in his throat. 

“A week at the most,” he reminds himself, and walks back into the hallway. 

 

==

 

“He’s pretty noisy, right?” Phil asks as he settles down on the living room floor, and P.J. blinks at him exactly once before he cranes his neck in the direction of Clint’s voice.

Even though he’s standing outside on the patio, Clint’s voice carries through the house as he talks to Bruce on his cell phone, and the ebb and flow of his conversation comforts Phil as he leans back against the couch. P.J. sits in the middle of the living room rug, his few toys spread out around him, but he’s mostly focused on the doorway that leads into the kitchen. He knows it as the door Clint disappeared behind after his phone rang and startled all three of them, and it’s clear he wants his uncle to return.

He’d actually whined about it for the first couple seconds, his arms outstretched. He’d even flopped over like he’d intended to crawl after his uncle, but he’d given up once Phil’d entered the room.

Not that he notices Phil now. No, he’d much rather chew on the side of his own hand and stare after Clint.

Phil knows that feeling well.

He steals a couple of P.J.’s battered stacking cups (one of the few toys from the plastic bag of baby supplies Barney’d brought over the night before) in hopes of distracting him, but the more he builds his little tower, the more _he’s_ the distracted one. P.J.’s been awake since around the time Phil started dinner, his big brown eyes attentive and alert, and the longer Phil watches him, the more he’s sure his nephew’s holding some sort of silent vigil. He’d barely cried or complained about anything—not his dirty diaper, not the clatter of pots on the stove, not even the baby food peas he’d refused to eat at dinner—content to perch in a single spot and observe the world around him. He’s not as curious as Phil remembers his nieces and nephews being at that age (never mind the boldness of Astrid Odinson), but Phil thinks he’s—

He struggles for a moment for the right word. Observant? Vigilant? Nothing sounds right. Either way, he’s one of the most serious babies Phil’s ever met, and Phil’s still waiting for him to crack a real smile.

He finishes up his little cup tower. “Ta-da,” he says, and P.J. swivels around to stare at him. Phil nudges the tower across the rug. “You want to knock it everywhere? I take it on good authority that babies really like—”

The unmistakable pitter-patter of other little feet on the hardwood floor throw Phil off for a second, and P.J. immediately jerks his attention toward the streak of gray that darts through the living room. Sandy ignores both of them to make a flying leap onto the back of Clint’s favorite armchair and crouches, tail swishing, ready to pounce on an invisible foe. Phil’s about to scold her—her latest ghost enemy are the strings on the blinds—when P.J. suddenly shrieks.

In _delight_.

Phil completely forgets about the cat to stare at his suddenly grinning nephew, and he watches in mild amazement as P.J. mashes his hands together. He babbles incoherently, his whole face light and warm, and Phil—

There’s hints of Clint in his nephew’s face, Phil realizes, and the clear joy that radiates out of the boy’s tiny body steals his breath in a way he’s not used to.

Sandy abandons her post on the back of the chair to land gracefully on the floor, and P.J. throws himself on the ground to meet her. It’s clear from the way he flops around that he’s not much of a crawler, but he props himself up on his palms and keeps grinning. Sandy wanders over to Phil, her attention trained on the baby, and lays down with her head about three inches from his thigh.

P.J. laughs and slaps the floor with his hand. 

“Do you want to see the kitty?” Phil asks, but P.J. ignores him. He babbles at the cat again, his one hand reaching out with greedy, grasping fingers.

Sandy yawns and flicks her tail. 

“Yeah, we _love_ the kitty,” Clint remarks as he walks back into the room. Even when he tosses his phone on the couch and plops down next to Phil, P.J. ignores him; when Clint tweaks one of the tiny flexing toes, P.J. grunts and tries to kick his hand. Clint grins. “Whole time you were gone this morning, he either stared at me or stared at the cat. I think the only time he smiled at me was gas, but the second Sandy walked into the room . . . ”

He trails off with a shrug, and Phil smiles. P.J., apparently tired of just watching the cat, starts to drag himself across the couple feet of distance between them. The move reminds Phil of a modified Army crawl—if the Army kept their stomachs on the floor and grunted with effort every time they surged forward, of course.

Sandy, suddenly an expert in self-preservation, bolts out of the room.

P.J. twists around, desperate to follow her, and Clint laughs as their nephew prepares to course-correct. “C’mere, you weird cat-lover,” he says as he scoops P.J. into his lap, and P.J. only struggles until Clint hands him one of his toys. It’s a plastic car filled with rattling beads that Phil’d picked up at Target that morning. P.J. shakes it a few times, grins, and shoves it in his mouth.

“Your Uncle Clint does the same thing any time someone hands him a new highlighter,” Phil informs the baby, and Clint pulls a face as he knocks their shoulders together.

For a moment, the near-silence between them is comforting instead of heavy, but then, Clint sighs. “Bruce can’t confirm what exactly went on from his end,” he says as he leans his head back against the couch cushions, “but he pretty much promised that child services’ll stay out of it until Barney’s back. Then, if everything’s back to normal—”

Phil snorts. “Define ‘normal.’”

Clint rolls his eyes. “—they’ll probably leave Barney, Ally, and the kid to their own devices.” He shakes his head. “I know it’s better than him being dumped into foster care ‘cause his parents are all over the place, but I still wish—”

“I know,” Phil echoes, and he reaches out to squeeze Clint’s knee with his hand. Clint smiles slightly, his expression somehow worried and fond at the same time, and Phil only just resists the urge to run fingers through his hair. P.J. flops back against Clint’s chest, and Phil spares him a small smile. “Nick called our current situation ‘accidental baby acquisition,’ by the way.”

Clint grins. “Sounds like the way Maria describes her kid.”

“No, Maria calls him the . . . rutabaga, maybe? I can’t keep all the vegetables straight.” Clint laughs warmly, and Phil feels the knot of anxiety that’s living in his stomach loosen slightly. “He said we could take all the time we need while Barney’s gone. Of course, I think he’s also afraid we’ll bring the baby to the office and distract everyone if he doesn’t give us some time off.”

“Still better than Natasha cutting out your spleen when she’s saddled with another nightmare case,” Clint points out, and Phil cringes. Worse, he remembers that Natasha’s next three assignments from the _covering for Maria_ pile list Laufeyson as the defense attorney. Clint smirks at his audible groan. “You can always bribe her with vodka and those truffles,” he suggests.

“And start World War III when Stark steals them out of her desk again? Thanks, but no thanks.” Clint snorts a laugh, and Phil shakes his head. “I think we’re damned if we do and if we don’t.”

“Given that Stark overheard my conversation with Bruce? I figure we’ve got forty-eight hours before we’re overrun by nosy coworkers demanding to poke the kid.”

Phil frowns. “That long?”

Clint shrugs. “From what I hear, Bruce knows a _lot_ of distracting sex acts.”

His tone’s just dry enough that Phil laughs as he rolls his eyes, and in Clint’s lap, P.J. squirms around and grins with them both. For a split second, he’s a messy-haired echo of his uncle, a ghost of what Clint probably looked like as a toddler, but the thought fades away when P.J. suddenly stops moving. His smile droops, his body language shifts, and for a moment, he’s lost in concentration. 

The smell hits Phil a second before he recognizes his nephew’s expression.

“Shit, you’re worse than Barney,” Clint complains as he recoils, but P.J. barely budges. Phil bites back his laughter, especially since, a moment later, the boy flops back against his uncle and grins. Clint scowls. “Do people actually sign up for this? ‘Hey, I think I want something that stinks three times a day?”

“Just hope the diapers I bought this morning don’t leak,” Phil replies, and Clint glares at him as he scoops P.J. up for his diaper change. 

Phil grins a little at Clint’s retreating back, never mind the way he complains the whole way, but as soon as his husband disappears down the hallway, the room feels claustrophobic and entirely too quiet. Phil’s not sure whether to blame their visitor or the brother-in-law sized elephant in the room, but either way, he pushes himself to his feet. He leaves P.J.’s half-moon of toys on the rug and walks right out of the room—and then, right out the front door.

The concrete stoop’s still warm against his bare feet, and the setting summer sun casts long streaks of pink and orange across the slightly cloudy sky. He squints into the sunset and listens to crickets while hoping he’ll hear the grumble of Ally’s towncar rattling around the corner.

He hears a dog barking and kids shouting, but nothing else.

“You know he didn’t tell us everything, right?” Clint asks a few minutes later, and Phil jumps slightly as his husband sits down next to him on the stoop. P.J. wriggles in annoyance, apparently tired of his status as a lap-prisoner, and he only stops protesting when Clint stands him at their feet. He curls his fingers in Clint’s jeans, swaying slightly, but he stays upright. 

Phil smiles gently and ruffles his hair. 

Clint waits a few beats before saying, “No fair avoiding my question with baby-petting.”

Phil raises an eyebrow. “It counts as a question when we both know the answer?”

“According to my boss, I’m never supposed to ask a question I don’t already know the answer to.”

Phil snorts slightly at Clint’s tiny smirk, and they spend a moment watching two joggers huff and puff down the sidewalk before he finally shakes his head. “I think he’s scared,” he admits, and he’s not entirely surprised when Clint nods unevenly. “I think whatever’s happened between him and Ally—whatever drove her away and left him at this lose end—caught him off-guard, and he panicked. It’s why he came to us.”

Clint huffs bitterly. “You mean why he dumped his kid and took off without saying goodbye,” he grumbles, turning away.

“Yeah, but he knew we’d be here.” Clint exhales again, his jaw flexing, and Phil knocks their knees together until he glances over. “When we first met, you and Barney could hardly be in the same room,” Phil reminds him. “Hell, the first time I met your brother, you were trying to beat his face in. Now, you talk. You support each other. And Barney trusts that.” Clint rolls his eyes, but Phil knows from the way his throat bobs that it’s mostly deflection. “He trusts you. And in a way, _we_ need to trust that about him.”

Clint presses his lips together, his eyes drifting out toward the street just as a woman and her dog round the nearest corner. P.J., predictably, lets out an ear-splitting squeal, and the dog freezes for a split second before he starts to bark in reply. For the next two minutes, the woman shushes her dog while P.J. laughs, bounces, and tries to clap for the dog. He throws himself off balance more than once, leaving Clint to catch him under the armpits while Phil waves bashfully at the stranger.

P.J.’s still craning his neck to follow the dog’s retreat when Clint says, “Thanks.”

Phil blinks over at him. “For?”

“Not letting me kill Barney. I mean, he probably deserves it, but—”

“Well, I’ve always heard that conjugal visits are a pretty huge hassle,” Phil replies with a shrug, and Clint’s hard bark of laughter surprises them both.

They sit outside for another twenty minutes or so, their shoulders pressed together as P.J. squeals at every dog that passes by (never mind the squirrel that dares to dart across their yard). And although they talk occasionally, discussing cases or sports or the weather, they never again mention Barney.

Instead, Phil thinks, they hold a silent vigil and hope he returns.

They’re not surprised when he doesn’t.

 

==

 

As it turns out, Clint’s prediction about them having forty-eight hours of peace before the cavalry rolls in is too optimistic.

“There’s no way you’ll survive the next week without the proper supplies,” Melinda says sharply, and Clint nearly falls over as she forcibly shoves a cardboard box labeled _TWINS_ into his arms. “Remember when Jackson dislocated his elbow? We left you with Alex for three hours and came home to both of you crying.”

Clint hides his grin behind the box, and Phil scowls. “I’d just stubbed my entire foot on the doorjamb,” he reminds her.

“Only because you were rushing to clean up your own sympathy vomit,” Melinda retorts, and this time, Clint bursts out laughing. 

P.J. lifts his face away from Phil’s shoulder to gape at the sound, but Phil just rolls his eyes. “For the last time, there is nothing more disgusting than freshly regurgitated macaroni, and I won’t apologize for that.”

Melinda shrugs. “Doesn’t change the fact that you’re doomed without my help,” she replies, and slams the back hatch of the Fury family Range Rover.

P.J. flops back into Phil’s shoulder again, as shy as when he first laid eyes on Melinda, and Phil sighs at both her and his still-grinning husband as they walk into the house. He’s not sure why Melinda’s off work—after all, she usually spends her Mondays preparing for Judge Hammersmith’s packed Tuesday morning civil docket—but he suspects reason is nine months old and avoiding eye contact. 

Either way, she adds the folded-up contraption she’d dragged out of the back of her car to the baby gate (also dragged out of her car) to the pile in the living room and surveys the bounty. “This will probably be enough,” she decides.

Clint chokes on air. “Probably?”

“Kids are easy for the first seven or eight months, but the instant they’re mobile, you’re pretty much doomed.” She snorts. “I still remember the first time I looked up from making dinner and discovered that Jackson’d started crawling. We practically bought stock in baby gates after that.”

Clint smirks. “That the one who dislocated his arm the night Phil puked?”

“And broke it later!” Beth Fury declares, suddenly popping into the room. She’s wearing hot pink capris and a t-shirt that’s covered in bedazzled butterflies; when Phil grins at Melinda, she just shakes her head. “He fell out of a tree when I was little,” Beth continues, oblivious. “Daddy told him not to climb, he climbed, and then he snapped his arm like when you snap a stick.”

She mimes snapping a stick over her knee, and Clint cringes. Melinda ignores him to raise her eyebrows. “The deal was that you could only come with if you helped,” she reminds her daughter. 

Beth crosses her arms. “Uncle Phil always says that Sandy-the-Sandwich-Cat tries to run out of the house when the door’s open, so I distracted her.” Her expression falters slightly. “But now she’s on top of the fridge. I think she’s hiding.”

“Only ‘cause she’s blind to how cool a visitor you are,” Clint assures her, and the second he holds up his hand, Beth rushes over for a high-five. Phil’s still not sure how the two of them bonded—Beth’s a bossy nine-year-old, Clint’s an irreverent adult who sometimes still flinches away from Dot Barnes—but he’s pretty sure at this point that they’ve developed a secret handshake.

(Maybe it’s a Girl Scout cookie thing. He’s pretty sure the three-fingered salute halfway through their ritual references Beth’s recent bridging into Junior Girl Scouts.)

She tries to initiate the handshake, too—as far as Phil can tell, it starts with a pinky-swear and escalates from there—but Melinda plants her hands on her hips. “Beth—”

“Needs a popsicle,” Clint breaks in, and everyone except the baby blinks at him. He shrugs. “Pretty sure you and Melinda are about to engage in one of those deep friendship heart-to-hearts that leave me feeling itchy. Least I can do is pump the kid full of sugar before we have her put all the outlet covers on.”

Beth squints up at him. “I might be too little to go by the outlets.”

Clint grins. “Nice try, short stack,” he replies, and steers her back into the kitchen.

Melinda rolls her eyes at the whole display—after all, they walk all of three feet before Beth tries to start an over-the-shoulder version of their usual greeting—but Phil knows her well enough to catch the twinkle in her eye. 

“What?” she demands when she catches him watching.

He shrugs. “Nothing.”

She snorts. “You don’t know the meaning of the word,” she retorts, and scoops up the box that Clint’d abandoned.

They don’t actually engage in a “deep friendship heart-to-heart” as they dig through the box of leftovers from the Fury boys’ infancy, testing out the old baby monitor and dusting off ancient, well-loved toys in relative silence. P.J. finally stops hiding long enough to grab a stuffed ball with a crunchy center out of Phil’s grip, and he amuses himself by squeezing it until he hears the crinkling.

He’s even content to sit on the floor, although he hides his face in Phil’s leg the second the popsicle patrol reemerges. Beth plops down across from him, unbothered by his shyness, and he only really lifts his head when he realizes she’d rather play with his stacking cups than _him_.

“Did you seriously keep all this stuff from when your kids were little?” Clint asks as he drops onto the couch at Phil’s side, his mouth stained from his strawberry popsicle. Phil rolls his eyes slightly, but he accepts a quick taste, too. 

Melinda wrinkles her nose at the public display of affection as she drags out a handful of old outfits. “We figured more of our friends would have kids. We’d actually moved most of it to the Goodwill pile when I got pregnant with Beth, and since we weren’t sure what we were having . . . ”

Clint’s brow furrows. “Yeah, okay, but she’s, what, eight now?” 

“Nine,” Beth says over her shoulder. 

“You stole the last grape popsicle. You’re dead to me.” Beth grins as she returns to her stacking cup pyramid, and Phil rolls his lips together to keep from chuckling. Clint, on the other hand, just quirks an eyebrow. “Sounds to me like you were maybe planning on a fourth.”

The dagger-sharp glare Melinda shoots him is intense enough that it raises the gooseflesh on Phil’s arms. Clint, apparently aware of this, ducks behind Phil’s shoulder to hide his grin. 

Phil sighs. “We’re working on his self-preservation instinct this week,” he promises.

Melinda snorts. “Work harder,” she instructs, but the corner of her mouth twitches as she returns to the box of baby supplies. 

They spend a shamefully long time digging through all the clothes, shoes, toys, bath toys (because they’re decidedly different), and socks before moving on to all of the various gizmos that promise to baby-proof the house for the next six days. Melinda demonstrates most of them with the practiced ease of a woman who _still_ maintains baby locks on some of her kitchen cabinets, and Phil’s proud to say he manages to open and close the baby gate without pinching his fingers.

Clint, however, draws blood. He swears, tries again (smearing blood on the plastic), and ultimately abandons all hope. “I’m usually great at gates,” he mutters in defeat, and Phil pats his shoulder. 

Melinda rolls her eyes when they stop in the bathroom for Neosporin and a band-aid.

Setting up the pack-and-play ends up being a ten-step process with a lot of complicated instructions, and by the end of the whole endeavor, Phil’s scratching fingers through his hair. “He’s slept two nights on the guest bed without falling off,” he tells Melinda once she’s finished assembling the gray-and-blue monstrosity. “I’m pretty sure he’s still miles away from a full-on jail break.”

Melinda immediately levels him the kind of no-nonsense expression she usually saves for her children. “Would you rather him sleep in his own form of solitary confinement, or wake you up at three a.m. when he rolls off the bed and starts screaming?”

“Mark me down for baby jail,” Clint votes, and Phil rolls his eyes at both of them.

Still, there’s something surreal about the way their guest room looks now, with neat stacks of diapers and baby clothes on top of their spare desk and a pack of wipes on the floor from where Clint’d changed P.J. this morning. In a way, Phil feels like he’s living one of his fantasies from his life before Clint, one where he settled down as a much younger man and built a family from the ground up.

The thought grips him by the throat, almost choking him, and he coughs. “Thanks,” he murmurs before the silence overwhelms him.

Melinda smiles like she’s able to read his mind. “You’re welcome,” she replies, and squeezes his shoulder.

Back in the living room, they discover that Beth’s either coaxed or forced P.J. into her lap, and they glance up in unison from the board book they’re reading. It’s one of the half-dozen from Melinda’s box, and something about the edges suggest that it’s been well-loved (or more likely, well-gnawed).

Beth beams. “He likes me more than the cat,” she reports proudly.

Melinda snorts slightly, but not even the lifelong master of casual disinterest can stop herself from smiling at her beautiful daughter. “I noticed. You keeping him out of trouble?”

Beth nods, her curls bouncing, and P.J. twists his head up to study them. As Phil watches, he raises his hand like he’s tempted to grab a fistful, but at the last second, he sticks his fingers in his mouth. Beth barely notices. “I’m going to read him all the books,” she explains. “And if you’re still helping Uncle Phil when we’re done, we’ll play with the xylophone.”

Clint groans and presses his forehead against the back of Phil’s shoulder. “Why is there a toy xylophone?”

Phil grins. “I’d assume so you and Wade don’t have to download a piano app next time you’re drunk and want to play Beyoncé songs.” 

Clint grumbles and pinches his hip, and Melinda spares them a withering glance before she turns her attention back to her daughter. “We’re going out back for a few minutes,” she says after a beat. “Come find us if you need anything, okay?”

Beth tips her head back and heaves an incredibly dramatic sigh. “I’m halfway through my babysitting badge, Mom.”

The corner of Melinda’s mouth kicks up into a smirk. “You’ll change your tune the first time you smell a dirty diaper,” she advices, and Beth wrinkles her nose as they head to the back door.

By the time Phil realizes that Melinda’s fallen to the back of their little pack, she’s twisting the cap off a beer and pressing it into his grip. It’s barely one in the afternoon, the sun still high and hot above them, but he nods his thanks anyway. 

Next to him, Clint wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and grins. “We always drink when you’re over.”.

Melinda raises her eyebrows. “You complaining?”

“Long as you’re willing to keep up the good work, no ma’am,” he replies with a laugh, and Phil shakes his head.

They linger outside for a moment, the humid breeze bearing down on them like a physical presence. Phil’s not sure he remembers the last time one of his friends came over for a purely social call—there’s always some sort of crisis involved or some work to be done, unlike when Natasha shows up with Bruce, a bottle of vodka, and a predatory grin—and he pretends for a moment that Melinda’s just visiting. Just here to “shoot the shit,” as Clint likes to call it, talking about life and the weather instead of the care and feeding of strange nine-month-olds that Phil hardly knows.

She’s quiet for a long time before she says, “I can ask Skye to keep an eye on him, you know.”

The comment catches Phil off guard, and he pauses with the bottle halfway to his mouth. At his side, Clint’s eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. “Yeah?”

Melinda shrugs. “Her skills are wasted down there in the basement, and she really wants to help people. The second I told her Barney took off again, which I only did because she wouldn’t stop texting me about skipping out on work today,” she adds when Clint’s face falls, “she offered to keep track of him. Reach out to her ‘contacts,’ whatever that’s supposed to mean.” She pauses, her eyes searching Phil’s face. “I told her I’d ask.”

“And if we say no?” Phil asks.

“Then she’ll probably just go back to writing bar study programs for Grant Ward,” she replies lightly. 

Clint snorts sharply at that, and he waves off Phil’s half-second glare to take another swig of his beer. For a moment, Phil’s struck by how gorgeous he is in the sunlight, his hair tinged with gold and all his fine lines in striking relief around his eyes and mouth. He complains about his age occasionally—says he feels like a twenty-five-year-old man stuck in a nearly middle-aged body—but Phil loves every wrinkle and crease. 

Never mind the outline of his shoulders in his thin t-shirt and the curve of his ass and thighs in his jeans. Those deserve an ode all their own.

He’s still admiring Clint a few seconds later when he shakes his head. 

“When Barney decides he doesn’t want to be found, that’s pretty much the end of it,” he says quietly, his eyes focused on the already damp label of his bottle. “Whatever he’s doing, he’ll keep his head down ‘til he’s done. Especially since his kid’s here, waiting for him. I don’t want him getting spooked by a bunch of computer nerds.” He pauses, his brow tightening. “I want him to find Ally, sort out everything that’s going on with her, and come home.”

Melinda presses her lips together. “You think it’ll be that easy?”

Clint shrugs. “No. But I also think Barney loves his son.”

 

==

 

Late that night, after P.J.’s tucked into his so-called baby jail and Clint’s dead to the world on the far side of the bed, Phil rolls over and picks up his cell phone.

 _I know finding Ally is important to you,_ he types, the white-hot glare from the screen almost painful in the dark bedroom, _and I hope it’s the right thing in the end. I just also hope you know how badly you need to come back. For your son AND your brother_.

He stares at the phone until the screen dims and locks, and then, until he falls asleep.

And in the morning, when he wakes up to P.J.’s cries crackling through the baby monitor, he finds a single message waiting:

 **Barney Barton:** _trust me i know_


	4. Pendulums and Baby Swings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Phil and Clint try to discover some form of equilibrium. Meanwhile, Barney refuses to answer his phone calls, their friends discover their new roommate, and Phil wonders whether he should panic more (or not at all).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Erik Larson is a nonfiction writer who I suspect Phil would really like. I mean, I could be wrong, but I figure a man cannot live on Tom Clancy alone.
> 
> As always, thanks to Jen and saranoh, the greatest beta-readers known to fandom. Sorry, other beta-readers, but mine are the actual greatest.

“His criminal history score’s too high for probation, and I think you know it,” Phil says, rubbing the crease between his eyebrows. “And as much as I appreciate you going to bat for your client—”

“We wrote a proposed list of probation terms that address all of your concerns,” Volstagg interrupts in his usual, jovial way, and Phil seriously considers reaching through the phone to strangle him. Instead, he flops back on the old couch that lives in their home office and pinches the bridge of his nose. “If you review the document, I believe you’ll find it to your liking. And if not, there is certainly more to negotiate! I know my client would not object to a three-year probation term if it means he avoids jail time.”

“He’s a serial shoplifter who ran over a woman’s foot with his car,” Phil points out.

“While still high on methamphetamine, and he apologizes for his choices.” He sighs, shaking his head, and Volstagg tuts lightly on his end of the line. “Miss Hill told me about your recent personal developments,” he says conspiratorially, and Phil’s stomach suddenly clenches without his permission. “I understand if you need more time. When my first son was born, I needed months to put my practice back together! And I wasn’t even home with him.”

Phil lolls his head back against the couch cushion. The ceiling paint’s cracking slightly, one of the hundred items on their summer to-do list. He closes his eyes. “Patrick’s our nephew,” he says. “He’s only here a few more days, and after that—” 

“But a few days or not, a baby changes your life,” Volstagg points out. There’s laughter in his voice, and Phil works to bite back his groan. “The hearing is not for another two weeks. Review the document. Speak to Miss Hill and Mister Rogers. And when you’ve made a decision on your sentencing recommendation, we’ll speak again. In the meantime, enjoy your nephew! They are only that young once.”

Somewhere down the hallway, P.J. howls like Clint’s just torn his arm off. “I’ll e-mail you back by the end of the week.”

“Whenever you’re able, Phil. I’m always available, except when my wife informs me otherwise.”

Volstagg’s still chuckling at his own joke when Phil hangs up the phone and tosses it onto the nearest couch pillow. It bounces, hits Phil’s open case file, and knocks the whole mess onto the floor. Phil stares at the pile for a moment and decides he’ll pick it up after he downloads the proposed probation agreement.

Except the second he tries to refresh Outlook, the program locks up.

He nearly chucks the wireless mouse at the wall.

Ever since law school, Phil’s absolutely hated working from home, and this morning’s a textbook-perfect example of why. Between Sandy knocking over the office trash can, Outlook’s refusal to maintain a decent connection with the remote server, his piecemeal collection of statute books (most of them outdated and slightly stolen from the law library’s donation pile), and P.J. being, well, _P.J._ , Phil’s accomplished absolutely nothing.

Down the hall, Clint swears. There’s a splash, a pause, and more screaming from their nephew.

Phil sighs and levers himself up off the couch. 

In some ways, the last seven days with P.J. have felt like an extended vacation, if normal vacations involve mashed peas and repeated viewings of Melinda’s _Baby Einstein_ DVDs. With the exception of Clint running into work for his Friday morning traffic docket, they’ve kept to themselves: watching television, trading off morning jogs and afternoon naps, sitting out on the back patio in the evening while P.J. sits on a blanket and rips up fistfuls of grass. For the most part, P.J.’s a content baby to be around; he studies the world, wide-eyed and eager, but he’s in no hurry to escape from them or explore. If anything, the thought of exploring sends him into a raw panic. The one time he scooted himself into a corner, he screamed bloody murder until Phil rushed back into the living room and fished him out.

At night, on the other hand— Well, they’re still trying to figure out what spooks him, because he generally wakes up screaming once a night and refuses comfort. Sometimes, Phil suspects that the non-words he’s babbling are his codenames for his parents. After all, he’s crowed them at Clint’s silhouette before, mistaking him for Barney.

Barney, who’s still missing in action. Who’s not called or texted since last Monday night, almost a full week ago. Who Clint desperately pretends not to worry about, even though they both know he’s lying.

Phil scrubs a hand over his face as he closes in on the sound of P.J.’s crying. As far as he can tell, it’s coming from the master bathroom.

Great.

Usually when Clint’s wearing a damp t-shirt, he’s fresh in from working in the yard, and Phil plants his hip on the doorjamb and admires the sight. Today, Clint’s harried and frustrated, his hair sticking up at odd angles as he works to keep P.J. in the bathtub. There’s puddles on the floor, a wet patch on his jeans, and a hand towel floating in the six inches of lukewarm water that’s meant to be P.J.’s bath.

But P.J.’s not interested in the least. 

His arms shoot up in the air the second he spots Phil, water splashing everywhere, and Clint swears under his breath as he tries to keep the slippery baby from standing. He’s surprisingly good at pulling himself up, they’ve discovered, and if the splashing’s any indication, he’s kicking his feet and futilely trying to gain purchase on the bottom of the tub.

Clint shifts up onto his knees and promptly elbows a bottle of shampoo into the tub. “Aww, no,” he half-whines, and Phil’s heart stutters at the tiny note of panic underlying those two words.

P.J. glances down at the bottle, blinks once, and returns to screaming.

Clint groans and bangs his head against the side of the tub.

“I’ll tag in,” Phil offers as he steps all the way into the room, and Clint jerks hard enough that he almost loses his grip on the baby. As it stands, P.J. rises to one tiny knee before his uncle forces him back down on his belly, and he splashes all three of them when he smacks the water and howls. Phil drops to his knees on the floor, his jeans soaking in whatever water his socks missed, and Clint—

Clint stares at him, his eyes as big and cautious as when their tiny nephew meets a new stranger—or, alternatively, spots a new dog running by the house. “I thought you needed to reply to work e-mails before Natasha started plotting your death.”

Phil offers him what he hopes is an encouraging smile. “If death means never having to rage-restart Outlook again, I’ll take it.” Clint snorts a laugh at that, his expression still vaguely panicked, and Phil knocks their shoulders together. “You go fight with your laptop for a couple minutes. I’ve got the bath-hater.”

“You might live to regret it,” Clint warns.

“Not for long, if you believe Natasha’s text messages,” Phil reminds him, and Clint finally laughs aloud.

He drops a kiss on the top of Phil’s head before he leaves the room, and Phil soaks in the lingering warmth until P.J., no longer content to watch his uncle walk away, slaps the water.

Phil blinks the spray out of his eyes and sighs. “New plan,” he declares, and starts draining the tub.

P.J. contents himself with sitting on the bath mat once he’s finally out of the tub, and he sucks on two of his fingers as he watches Phil strip out of his clothes. His eyes, curious and cautious all at once, track Phil across the room, and he flinches without fussing when Phil bends over to start the shower. His fascination with Phil’s chest hair distracts him the instant Phil scoops him up off the floor, and he hardly notices when they step into the tub and then, into the spray.

He jumps and squirms at the first tickle of water on his back, but when Phil smiles, he relaxes. He leans his head against Phil’s shoulder, his tiny fingers still patting Phil’s chest, and allows Phil to wet his chubby body and his messy hair.

“You’re just not a bath baby, are you?” Phil asks.

P.J. blinks at him and, almost shyly, offers him a damp smile.

They don’t linger in the shower—the water’s only lukewarm, and Phil prefers it when the spray turns him lobster-red—and step out smelling of Clint’s bath soap and baby shampoo. P.J. hides his face in his bath towel and peeks out, playfully bashful, and he laughs when Phil feigns surprise. They play their little game while Phil dresses and on their walk to the guest room, and P.J. keeps hold of his towel all through Phil dressing him.

Phil wonders for a moment whether he has a comfort item at home: a stuffed toy, a blanket, a favorite scrap fished out of a laundry basket. Phil’d slept for almost ten years with a fleecy blue blanket covered in white stars. As far as he knows, his mother still has it stowed in a closet somewhere.

He thinks about calling her, but wonders how he’d explain himself. _We’re babysitting Clint’s nephew for an uncertain amount of time, and I’d like him to have my blanket_ , he practices in his head, but it sounds—

He glances down at P.J., damp and content in a pair of baby jeans and a t-shirt with a baseball glove on the front, and he shakes his head. “It sounds like being too invested,” he informs the baby, who grins and wriggles. “And that’s something we’re not allowed to do, right? No investment in nephews whose dads will show up any minute now.”

P.J. babbles nonsense at him and giggles when Phil tickles his belly.

No investment, Phil reminds himself, and scoops the baby up off the bed.

Clint’s in the living room when Phil finds him, his cell phone pressed to his ear and his fingers drumming against the window frame as he stares outside. Phil almost calls out to him and even considers a wolf-whistle—he’s in his damp t-shirt, after all, and his jeans show off every contour of his ass and thigh—but he stops the second he recognizes the tension that runs through his husband’s shoulders. Clint, oblivious, rests his forehead against the window and sighs.

“It’s me again,” he says into the phone, his voice low and dark. “I know you’re still doing whatever, but just— Call us, okay Even if you can’t come back right now and you need more time, just call. ‘Cause I don’t—”

He pauses to draw in a shaky breath that Phil feels in his own belly.

“Just call,” Clint repeats, tighter than before, and immediately ends the call.

He spends another second or two at the window before he turns around, and Phil’s still searching for the right greeting when P.J. releases a high-pitched, delighted squeal and sticks his arms straight out in Clint’s direction. They both jump a little, surprised, and P.J. fusses at the momentary delay. He kicks and wiggles, his whole body craning toward Clint, and for a second, Phil actually worries about dropping him.

“Okay, okay, keep your shorts on,” Clint says with a smile, and P.J. only calms down when he can flop against Clint’s shoulder and _sigh_. Clint smiles down at him, brushes his damp-curled hair from his forehead, and Phil pretends that he’s immune to how sweet and gentle he is. At least, until Clint’s brow furrows and he asked, “How’d Uncle Phil convince you to get clean, anyway?”

“Uncle Phil decided to try the shower, which somebody liked a whole lot better,” Phil says. “Either that, or he was just too distracted by my chest hair to notice the water.”

“Same way I feel about your chest, really,” Clint replies, and he grins when Phil rolls his eyes. “How’d you figure out that trick, anyway? Google?”

“Shannon.” When Clint frowns slightly, Phil shrugs. “She hated baths. Fought them from birth until— Well, actually, I think she still fights them. Sam figured out early on that she could duck in and out of the shower with her baby and achieve the same effect. I figured trying it out on this one wouldn’t hurt.”

He punctuates his point by tweaking P.J.’s toes, but P.J. immediately jerks his foot away. He levels a dirty look at Phil, his tiny face crinkled in a scowl, and Clint holds himself together for about half a second before he bursts out laughing. P.J. instantly grins, clearly proud of himself, and he claps in delight.

Except the second Clint regains his composure, Phil’s able to see all the cracks and chips in his armor, all the exhaustion that bubbles just under the surface. Phil feels it too—he sometimes wonders if he’ll ever sleep soundly again, the way he jumps at every creak and bump in the night and waits for P.J. to start howling—but Clint wears it on every inch of his face and posture.

He tips his cheek into Phil’s hand when Phil reaches out to touch him, to smooth his thumb over the fine lines that exhaustion’s transformed into trenches. His eyelids flutter and close, his lips parting in a sigh, and he practically melts when Phil reels him in to kiss him.

The kiss lingers, stretching out slowly but not necessarily reaching any deeper (Clint _is_ holding onto a baby, after all), and they stand close to one another even when they break apart. Phil slides his hand under the back of Clint’s t-shirt, stroking his bare skin for a moment before he says, “He’ll come back.”

Clint snorts and rolls his eyes. “Phil—”

“We can handle P.J. for a few more days,” he presses, and Clint rolls his lips as he glances away. “Me working from home is good practice for Natasha and Steve, Darcy’s picking up most of your slack—”

“Darcy’s supposed to be studying for the bar full-time, not covering my ass,” Clint argues.

“—and Barney will be back before you know it.”

“You mean if he bothers coming back at all.”

“Just because he’s not here yet doesn’t mean—”

“Are you even listening to yourself right now?” Clint breaks in sharply, and Phil actually loses track of his sentence as he steps back and blinks at him. His husband sighs and jerks away, his free hand running through his hair, and Phil hates for a second how much he’s reminded of the Clint he first met two years ago, a man brimming with turmoil—and worse, with fear.

Leave it to Barney to bring all that back to the surface, Phil thinks, and his own bitterness surprises him.

“I just,” Clint starts, but the words wobble and he pauses to swallow. “None of this is okay, Phil,” he says instead, and Phil rolls his lips together to keep from nodding. “Barney shows up, drops his kid off, disappears off the earth, and we’re— What? Supposed to put everything on hold to babysit until he decides he wants to be a dad again? We can’t put the kid in daycare ‘cause we don’t have any of his paperwork, we can’t in good conscience leave him at the park and just hope for the best, we can’t keep skipping work to play nanny, and it’s all just . . . ”

He huffs out a breath and shakes his head again, harder this time, and Phil fights for a moment against the worry that rolls through the pit of his belly. Because of course, Clint’s just verbalized everything Phil’s felt for the last week—everything he’s fought against admitting despite Melinda and Maria’s best attempts to drag it out of him, everything that’s kept him from sleeping the last several nights. Worse, he’s _right_ about all of it, and Phil—

Phil’s not good at a lot of things—following complicated recipes, remembering to pick up his dry cleaning, calling his sisters, throwing away condom wrappers—but somehow, he’s the worst at feeling impotent.

He finally sighs. “I know this isn’t ideal—that it’s not even really working at all, really—but unless you have a better idea, then—”

“My only idea is that my fucking brother comes home!” Clint announces, and they’re allowed one split-second of absolute silence before P.J. starts screaming.

Clint jerks, surprise and shame replacing all the anger that the last five minutes have etched into his features, but by time he plants a hand on P.J.’s back, the damage is done: P.J. shoves at his chest, howling, and reaches desperate, grabby hands in Phil’s direction. There’s panic in his cries, panic and absolute distress, and Phil’s not sure whether it’s that or Clint’s helpless expression that cuts straight through to his heart. The second he plucks P.J. out of Clint’s grip, the baby clings to him and hides his face in his t-shirt; even when he rocks P.J. and hushes him, his nephew just wails helplessly, his whole body heaving with distress.

“I—” Clint says helplessly, but the words dry up instantly. His throat bobs, his eyes dropping to the floor. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Phil immediately replies, a promise he offers not just to his husband but to both the Bartons in his living room. He presses his cheek to P.J.’s soft head, bouncing him in a blind attempt to calm him—but he also reaches out and snags his fingers in Clint’s belt loop to pull him close. Clint resists for a moment, his face still hidden, but when Phil tugs a second time, he follows. He slings an arm around Phil’s waist and tips to rest his forehead on Phil’s shoulder.

The three of them sway together and work to soothe one another until P.J.’s cries fade to hiccups and Phil’s mantra of _it’s okay_ becomes a steady, constant murmur, like a heartbeat.

And if Phil kisses both the baby and his husband on the tops of their heads— 

Well.

That’s for him alone to worry about.

 

==

 

“I’m starting to think you need something stronger than beer,” Pepper comments Thursday night—mostly, Phil suspects, because he’s rubbing his eyes and trying desperately not to fall asleep in the spinach-artichoke dip. “Do you want me to order you something else? An Irish coffee?”

“I think we’re past Irish coffees,” Peggy Carter replies as she reaches for the plate of nachos in the middle of the table. “But he might perk up after a Red Bull and vodka.”

“Or with meth,” Darcy offers, and she squeaks when Jane smacks her in the upper arm with her own legal pad.

“I’m fine,” Phil promises the four of them, and he rolls his eyes when each woman levels him the same dubious look. “I’m exhausted, my husband’s exhausted, my house is a mess and I’m pretty sure I smell like diaper rash ointment—”

“As long as you noticed,” Darcy says, and promptly blocks Jane’s second smack with her rolled-up utensils.

“—but otherwise, I’m good.” Pepper presses her lips into a tight line, and he forces a smile. “I promise.”

Pepper studies him for a few seconds before she nods gently, but Peggy snorts and shakes her head. “You’re a rubbish liar,” she announces, and snatches away the last of the spinach dip before he’s able to face-plant into it.

Jane picks up the thread of the conversation by steering them back onto the topic of Maria’s baby shower—they’re only about a week and a half out at this point, and most of their plans still fail to meet the guest-of-honor’s exacting specifications—but the second Phil props his chin on his fist, he feels his mind wandering into dark, sleepy corners. He’d worked a half-day Tuesday and all day today, blitzing his cases and Clint’s like a man possessed, and the exhaustion’s finally starting to settle into his bones. If pressed, he might still be able to name all the phone calls, witness interviews, attorney meetings, and hearings he’d fielded between seven in the morning and five-thirty that afternoon—but he’s not totally sure, either.

He blames summer docket schedules, mostly. And P.J.’s decision to wake up at four, wide awake and desperate for someone to rock him.

Phil hides his yawn by sipping his beer.

He’d tried to skip his night out with Pepper and the other women, to shirk his shower-planning responsibilities and blame them on the actual baby living in his house, but Clint’d scowled at him the second he’d reached for his cell phone. “I went out with Bruce and Nat last night,” he’d reminded as he’d tried to snatch the phone right out of Phil’s grip. “You’re allowed to go out with your friends like normal, too.”

Phil’d raised his eyebrows. “You went out for an hour.”

“Still an hour away from the baby, boss.” When Phil’d rolled his eyes, Clint’d snaked into his personal space and finally stolen his phone. “Go,” he’d instructed, shoving it into his back pocket. “Get out of here and spend time with your lady-friends. P.J. and me, we’ll spend the night mocking the Cubs game, no problem.”

Phil’d crossed his arms. “You’re not making the compelling case that you think—”

“Seriously, _go_!” Clint’d retorted, laughing, and he’d only stopped trying to steer Phil out into the hallway when Phil’d caught him by the hips for a long, hard goodbye kiss.

He’s still thinking about that kiss, and about Clint and P.J. watching the Cubs game together (a bonding experience he’d actually enjoy, not that he’ll ever admit that to his Twins-loving husband), when Darcy snaps her fingers right in front of his nose. “You still with us?” she asks as he jerks back, blinking.

He nods and rubs his face. “Sorry,” he says. “What’d I miss?”

“We elected you the grandmaster of all baby shower events and ordered the barbecue in your name,” Jane says blandly, and she only smiles after Phil’s mouth falls open. Across the table, Peggy snickers into her pint glass. “Seriously, Phil, go home if you’re this tired. The four of us can handle the rest of the plans on our own.”

“Kind of like how we already are,” Darcy adds, and Jane shoots her another sharp look.

Phil sighs and leans back in his chair, his head still swimming slightly, and he’s not entirely surprised when Pepper returns to the table armed with a glass of wine for herself and a massive cup of coffee for Phil. He resists his urge to stick his nose in it to smile at her, but she just purses her lips. “If there’s anything we can do for you—”

“Besides babysitting,” Peggy notes.

“—you just need to ask.” When he opens his mouth to protest, she raises a hand. “I know you think you have a handle on this, but you’ve been home with a baby for, what, two weeks now?”

Phil glances down at his coffee. “Ten days.”

“That’s a long time for you and Clint to be trapped in the house and away from your normal routine. Last time Amy got sick, Tony made it six hours before he started calling me and pleading for death.”

“Not that anyone should aspire to Tony’s particular brand of parenting,” Peggy points out dryly, and Phil actually snorts a laugh as he glances over at her. “Friends of mine have a little girl who’s around Dot’s age. If you’re interested, I can call them, see if they’re willing to lend some of their old baby supplies. They might even still have a car seat.”

“Melinda stopped by last week and loaded us up on baby supplies, and Bruce reached out to a friend of his who works for child services and set us up with a loaner car seat.” He grins a little remembering Bruce’s stammering uncertainty, like he’d feared he’d overstepped his boundaries after the whole _call Barney right away_ song-and-dance. “Besides, Clint has Barney’s extra key. We can always loot his place for, I don’t know, diapers and baby clothes.”

“You haven’t been back there?” Jane asks, eyebrows raised.

“The park’s not exactly a ‘come back for the block party even after you move away’ kind of place,” Phil replies. “A couple people grudgingly respect Clint thanks to the Killgrave case, but for the most part, he’s a traitor and I’m a suit.” He shrugs. “Besides, Clint really wants to keep P.J. away from there until Barney’s back.”

Darcy frowns. “Isn’t he supposed to want to uphold his family heritage?” she asks. Pepper and Jane both scowl at her, but she just crinkles her nose at them. “Uh, people with babies are completely into that shit, and I know the Swedish lullabies to prove it.”

“Except Clint and Barney aren’t actually from the trailer park,” Phil explains. Darcy’s brow crumples, and for the first time, he’s left wondering how little his husband’s actually explained about his past. “I’m sure there’s plenty of people who feel that way, but for Clint— If anything, I think Clint wants to keep P.J. as far away from there for as long as possible.”

They all nod a little at that, their conversation trailing off into silence, and Phil forces himself to smile tightly as he sips his coffee. For a moment, he’s tempted to fill the quiet—to talk about how much P.J. reminds him of both Barney and Clint, to complain about his sleepless nights, to explain the bolus of worry that constantly churns in his stomach—but he realizes a few seconds later that he’s not sure how. P.J.’s not a permanent fixture in anyone’s life, not like Astrid or Dot or even Maria’s impending infant. Phil will never pass him off to friends at a summer barbecue or wonder which of the other office children he’ll bond with.

In a few days, he’ll be gone, a chubby memory that Phil might see a few times a year if he’s lucky.

He ignores the way that thought clenches in his chest and sets down his coffee cup. “He’s a good baby,” he says, “but he misses his dad.”

“He’s lucky to have you two,” Pepper replies lightly, and Phil pretends to miss her meaningful look when he smiles.

They finish their plans shortly after Phil finishes his coffee, and he swears he feels the caffeine buzzing through his veins as he starts the drive home. He rolls the windows down, cranks the radio up, and drums on his steering wheel to three different, unfamiliar songs.

He tries very hard not to think about Barney, P.J., or the way the situation’s wearing on both him and Clint.

Drumming or no, he daydreams about Clint and P.J.’s baseball bonding the whole way home.

There’s no sign of life at the house when he arrives, and a little tremor of panic rises up out of the pit of his stomach when he opens the garage and discovers it’s empty. Even knowing that they now have a car seat and a diaper bag (or rather, an old work bag of Phil’s that they’ve repurposed, just in case), his mind still leaps to worst-case scenarios as he heads inside. He’s so busy imagining some harm befalling P.J. (and then, a few seconds later, some harm befalling _Barney_ , but as always, the baby springs to mind first) that he nearly trips over Sandy as he walks into the kitchen.

Worse, he almost misses where Clint’s placed Phil’s cell phone on the counter—and the note that’s waiting underneath.

He’s not at all surprised when, fifteen minutes later, Tony Stark’s the one who wrenches open his ornate front door. “Look who finally graces us with his presence,” he greets, waving Phil in. “I thought we’d have to send out a Pepper-shaped search party.”

Phil snorts. “Miss me that much?”

“Missed my seven-year-old going to bed as agreed, actually, but now, she will _have no choice._ ”

He practically shouts the second half of the sentence, his voice echoing down the front hallway and toward the living room, and Phil almost laughs when the other man winks at him. As usual, Tony and Bruce’s house is an immaculately decorated ode to chaos, complete with shoes strewn all over the front hallway and a half-dismantled blanket fort in the dining room. Tony ignores all of it to lead Phil into living room, and immediately, Phil understands why he raised his voice.

Because sitting in the middle of the floor, surrounded by dolls, stuffed animals, and pieces of a plastic tea set is a damp-haired, pajama-wearing Amy Jimenez.

And across from her, armed with a spit-covered plastic cookie and wearing an oversized hat with flowers around the brim, is P.J. Barton.

P.J. cranes his neck as Phil wanders in the room, his big eyes curious and eager, and he grins and waves both arms the second he recognizes the new arrival. Amy, on the other hand, scowls. “But—”

Tony plants his hands on his hips, and for the first time in recorded history, a stern, no-nonsense expression replaces his usual manic grin. “We said you could stay up until Coulson got here to collect his people-shaped belongings,” he says, disregarding Phil’s eye roll, “and since Coulson just showed up . . . ”

Amy wrinkles her nose. “But we’re not done with—”

“Amelia,” Bruce warns from the kitchen, and Phil glances over just in time to catch him raising his eyebrows in a silent challenge. From where he’s perched on the countertop behind his friend, Clint smiles sheepishly and waves. 

Phil smiles back.

Amy, meanwhile, flicks her gaze between her parents for a moment before finally heaving a long sigh. “ _Fine_ ,” she informs them, and every inch of her manner proves exactly how not-fine bedtime really is. P.J. giggles when she leans over to kiss him on the cheek, his fingers tangling for a moment in her messy hair.

“We’ll be up in a minute,” Tony reminds her, but she ducks away from him when he tries to touch her head—and then, she stomps her way up every single stair.

“Please ignore her little . . . whatever that was, exactly,” Bruce says with a wave of his hand. “She’s had a rough day at soccer camp. I think she’s overtired.”

“Yeah, if by overtired, you mean _sassy_ ,” Tony retorts. Bruce cocks his head to one side, the corner of his mouth kicking up into a tiny grin, and Tony jabs a finger in his direction. “Still don’t care what you say, Banner, that girl-child did not learn her hair-flipping flounce from me. I haven’t had her in my clutches long enough to do that kind of damage.”

Bruce hides his disbelieving snort, but Clint grins. “On what planet is six months too short?”

Tony rolls his eyes. “First, it’s eight months. Eight-and-a-half if you’re really counting—which of course, I’m not.” This time, Bruce laughs outright, and Tony scowls at him. “And second, I have a seven-year-old with a natural aversion to teeth-brushing to attend to.”

“P.J.’ll miss his goodnight kiss, you know,” Clint says in a sing-song, his laugh lines bunching. 

“Yeah, I’m _desperately_ sad about that,” Tony returns as he trots off—but he _also_ cranes his neck to peer over the back of the couch at P.J., and Phil’s pretty sure he smiles at the baby before disappearing up the stairs.

P.J. crows and slaps himself on the thighs, delighted at the attention.

Phil only realizes how intently he’s studying his nephew when a big, familiar hand spreads across his back and jerks his attention away. Clint smiles softly at him, his expression gentle and warm, and for one glorious instant, Phil feels all the tension of his long day just wash away. “Sorry about disappearing on you,” his husband says. “I tried calling you after he puked, but I still had your phone and—”

“You needed backup?” Phil guesses.

Clint snorts. “And a baby thermometer,” he replies, and Phil can’t help his grin. “Turns out, babies throw up sometimes, especially when they’re laughing at your crazy cat.”

“Thankfully, they also laugh at grumpy seven-year-olds,” Bruce chimes in as he wanders over. P.J. glances up from his plastic cookie to blink at the new voice, but when Bruce waves, he grins and wriggles in delight. “I helped Clint check him out,” Bruce continues with a shrug. “He’s not running a fever, and he was more than happy to shove his face in Amy’s ice cream cone. Looks to me like there was nothing to worry about.”

“Yeah, and I’ll remember that the next time you’re panicking about Teddy’s teenage angst,” Clint challenges, and Bruce rolls his eyes as he excuses himself to help tuck Amy in.

Despite the fact that they’re all alone in their friends’ huge and suspiciously quiet house, Phil and Clint linger close to one another, Clint’s hand still splayed across the small of Phil’s back. Phil means to pay attention to P.J.—now that he’s no longer the center of attention, he’s trying to scoot his way over to Amy’s plastic dishware, his face red with concentration—but somehow, Phil can’t keep his eyes off his husband. All at once, the last ten days feel like the longest of his life, and he _misses_ Clint.

After all, P.J.’s nightly cries leave them to sleep in staggered shifts split between their room and the guest room. And thanks to Barney, they’ve talked about nothing but family and work for—

Phil’s stomach clenches.

For at least two full weeks.

He’s still studying Clint’s face—the laugh lines, the worry lines, the dark circles of exhaustion—when he says, “I love you, you know that?” 

Clint immediately frowns. “This a run-up to bad news or something?”

Phil chuckles and shakes his head. “Just a much-needed reminder,” he replies, and he silences all of Clint’s doubts with a kiss. 

 

==

 

They kiss again at home, hungry, heavy kisses punctuated with greedy gasps and the whisper of their clothes hitting the floor, and Clint’s grin glows in the pale light of their bedroom when Phil pins him to the bed. They roll around like teenagers for a few minutes, reveling on the rasp of fingernails against bare skin and the sweet heat of whispered promises, but the nearly two weeks of exhausted, worry-laden celibacy catches up with them in record time. Suddenly, they’re not savoring the moment as much as they’re chasing it, Phil’s fingers scratching through Clint’s hair as Clint slides down the length of his body and the mattress protesting when Phil bucks off the bed like a needy virgin.

Phil tangles one hand in the sheets, scrabbling for purchase, but he knows before the first time his eyes find Clint’s that he’s already on the verge of unraveling. A few minutes later, and Clint shakes loose just as quickly, his thighs bunching and belly quivering as he clings to Phil’s neck like he’s afraid of floating away.

They’re still panting, Clint’s fingers stroking through Phil’s hair, when the baby monitor crackles with one of P.J.’s helpless cries.

Clint groans and starts to roll away, all the tension he’d sloughed off during sex prickling back to the surface, and he only pauses when Phil catches him by the hip. “I’ll go,” he offers. “You had him all day, the least I can do is—”

“At least one of us deserves a good night’s sleep, boss,” Clint interrupts, and Phil’s heart clenches at his tiny, rueful smile. “Might as well be you.”

They share one short, sweet kiss before Clint climbs off the bed, grabs his boxers off the floor, and disappears into the hallway. 

And the next morning, Phil walks into the guest room to discover Clint in the spare bed with P.J. sprawled out next to him, both of them beautiful—and sound asleep.

 

==

 

“You ready to fly?” Clint asks, and P.J. beams at him.

The June breeze, warm and just a little damp, ruffles the P.J.’s messy hair as Clint nudges the baby swing forward for the first time. For one, breath-catching second, the baby freezes, his brown eyes blooming and his smile dropping away—but as soon as he spots Phil smiling at him from a nearby park bench, his lower lip stops quivering. Phil wiggles his fingers to wave, and P.J. grins at him. By the time the swing reaches its highest point and sends him back to Clint, he’s laughing, his cheeks bunching in delight.

“It’s a bird! It’s a plane! It’s Super Peej!” Clint cheers as he pushes their nephew again.

P.J. shrieks and claps.

The park is quiet and empty this morning, like their own private sanctuary, and Phil leans back on the bench to bask in the summer sun. For the first time in the two weeks he’s spent in their guest room, P.J.’d successfully slept through the night. Better still, he’d woken up with a grin on his face, and within about five minutes of rescuing him from baby prison, Phil’d discovered just how contagious that little boy’s mood could be. He’d hummed along with Clint’s singing as they’d whipped up breakfast, a little off-key harmony to start their day, and he’d tried to ignore the way his chest seized up every time Clint leaned in to kiss Phil’s temple or tickle P.J.’s belly.

Of course, ignoring the feeling had failed miserably. Instead, Phil’d spent his breakfast falling deeper and deeper in love with Clint Barton.

After they’d eaten and dressed P.J. in his last pair of clean baby shorts, Clint’d offered to walk him down to the park while Phil ran, a little breath of fresh air for all three of them. Phil’d gone as far as lacing up his sneakers before he’d changed his mind. “I’m tired of running alone,” he’d admitted. “I’ll just bring a book and come with you two.”

Clint’d grinned. “You miss me?” 

“Always,” Phil’d replied, and Clint’d hidden his pleased little smile behind his last sip of coffee.

Now, twenty minutes later, P.J.’s gone down three slides (all on Clint’s lap, naturally), tried to eat at least a half-dozen dandelions, and sat in the sandbox for five long, confusion-filled minutes. Phil’s not sure how he feels about the sandbox—or worse, P.J.’s sand-packed shoes and diaper—but he knows exactly how he feels about the sunlight glinting golden in Clint’s hair as he wiggles P.J.’s feet mid-swing.

Seeing the two of them together, his husband and the tiny boy with the Barton grin— Well, that’s better entertainment than even a hundred Erik Larson books.

After only two or three minutes on the swing, shouts of other children drown out P.J.’s squealing laughter, and Phil glances away just as two little boys barrel off the sidewalk and into the mulch. They’re both tall and blond, with freckles all over their noses, and P.J. abruptly stops grinning to stare. Clint musses up his hair but keeps pushing him, and the boys ignore them both to race to the top of the climbing structure and throw themselves down the slide. 

“Mind if I join you?” a voice asks, and Phil twists around to discover a young woman standing just behind the park bench. She’s blonde and slight like her sons—and, Phil guesses, like the baby in her stroller will be in another two or three years.

He scoots down and gestures to the newly empty space. “Be my guest,” he says, and she thanks him as she steps around. Phil spends another two or three seconds watching P.J. and Clint at the swings before he finally cracks his book to read. 

Or maybe to avoid peering too closely at the tiny, napping baby in the woman’s stroller. He’s not sure which, exactly.

He’s only about half a page in (thanks mostly to P.J.’s renewed laughter distracting him) when the two boys start squabbling over the tire swing. Their mother whistles at them, effectively breaking up the fight, and she heaves a sigh when she notices Phil’s tiny smile. “Yours are better behaved than mine,” she says, shaking her head.

Phil snorts. “You wouldn’t say that if you knew them.”

He glances up just as she grins, and he smiles back. After another moment, she nods toward the swings and asks, “How old?”

“Thirty-seven.”

She laughs. “Not him,” she chides, and Phil works very hard not to smirk. “The little one.”

His gaze wanders back to where Clint’s now standing in front of P.J.’s swing, pulling ridiculous faces and lightly pinching his chubby thighs. Something warm and uninvited uncurls in the center of his chest. “He’ll be ten months old next week.”

“Oh, that’s such a fun age,” the woman says wistfully, and she sighs when Phil raises his eyebrows. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful that the boys are finally in school, but they grow up _so_ fast. It feels like they were their sister’s size just a day or two ago.” She pauses to rock the stroller slightly, not that the pink-swaddled baby inside really notices. “Even she’s growing up too fast.”

Phil smiles. “She’s, what, two or three months old?”

“Ten weeks yesterday.” The woman brushes her hair out of her face as she turns back to Phil. “And eating enough for three babies while barely sleeping, if you can believe it.”

“Given that P.J. resents sleeping through the night, I do,” Phil promises, and she grins again. He smiles around the weird warmth that’s still spreading through his chest as he glances back at Clint. He wonders for a moment whether he’s blushing. “For what it’s worth,” he says after a beat, “my sisters always say their kids got better with age.”

As if on cue, one of the boys accuses his brother of smelling like “dog poop and rotten eggs” before running across the shaky suspended bridge that connects the two halves of the climbing frame. Their mother rolls her eyes. “I’m not sure I’d agree with that, but I’ll at least keep it in mind.” Phil snorts and almost reopens his book when she smiles slightly. “Do you miss it?”

He blinks. “Miss—”

“Your son being younger.”

“I—” This time, Phil’s certain he’s blushing, and he forces himself to smile as he twists away from her. Over at the swings, Clint holds onto the chains on either side of P.J. and blows raspberries against his neck while he squeals. He kicks and wriggles, dangling in suspended animation, and Phil—

Phil swallows. “He’s our nephew, actually.”

“Oh, I’m sorry!” the woman immediately says, and he’s not entirely surprised when she reaches out to squeeze his arm. “I just assumed, with you both here and him—”

“It’s fine,” Phil promises, but he feels a little like he’s lying. “Clint’s practically a carbon copy of his brother. The fact that he and P.J. look alike . . . ”

He shrugs as the words dry up on him, and the woman nods awkwardly. She holds onto his arm for a few more seconds before releasing him, and he watches as she fiddles with the sun shade on the stroller. He considers filling in more of the holes—explaining that he and Clint only started dating two years ago, that they’re newlyweds, that they share a total of twelve nieces and nephews between their two families—but he’s not entirely sure how to say it.

Worse, he’s afraid that any explanation will reveal too much about his own heart, or the way his chest seizes when P.J. reaches grabby hands out toward Clint every time he swings in that direction.

He opens his book and flips back a page in hopes of pulling himself back together.

At least, until the woman asks, “Are you just babysitting, or are you practicing?” He jerks his head up a little too fast, his teeth almost rattling, and she shrugs. “Best thing my brother ever did before we had the boys was lend me his daughter for a day. I learned a _lot_ about how grueling babies are.” She pauses, her brow creasing. “Had them anyway, though.”

Despite his better judgment (and the way his heart feels lodged in his throat), Phil huffs a laugh. “You make a compelling case for parenthood,” he informs her, and she grins. He tries to return the favor, to keep the conversation light and airy, but he ends up shaking his head as he glances back at Clint and P.J. “As for us, I think that ship’s sailed.”

“You know, I said the same thing about having a daughter,” the woman replies, “and look how that turned out.”

Phil presses his lips together instead of answering—mostly, he thinks, because he’s not sure whether there’s any way to explain how he feels in this instant—and loses another two or three seconds just watching his husband and their nephew together on the swing set. He only really realizes that he’s standing after he excuses himself, and even then, he’s not certain where his feet will lead him until he’s walking up and planting a hand on Clint’s back.

Clint starts a little, but the second he glances over, his face blooms into a gorgeous, sun-kissed grin. “You want a turn showing Super Peej how to fly?” he asks.

Tension still swimming around in his stomach, Phil shakes his head. “Somehow, I doubt I’m the person you want mentoring a young superhero.”

Clint leans back a few inches to gape at him. “You kidding me? ‘Cause the way I see it, you’re the king of calm, cool, and collected. You’d be down at mission control, your voice in the guy’s ear. ‘Talk to me, P.J. What’s your twenty?’” Phil rolls his eyes at Clint’s offensively nasal impression, and Clint laughs. “You’re like the M to P.J.’s Bond.”

Phil narrows his eyes. “You remember M died in the most recent movie, right?”

“Well, _now_ I do, and we’re back to mourning Dame Judy all over again.” He clamps a fist over his heart like he’s about to pledge allegiance to the flag, and Phil snorts a laugh. “Besides,” Clint adds a second later, “think of it this way: if you’re not his mentor, then all that weight falls on my shoulders. Which probably means he’d be saving my ass all the time instead of the other way around.”

Phil’s mouth kicks up into an almost involuntary smirk. “Is this where I point out that you’re already mentor of the century to Super Kate?”

Clint groans aloud. “No, you don’t, not ever,” he complains, and he knocks their hips together when Phil laughs.

The woman on the park bench waves goodbye as Phil walks out of the park with P.J. on his hip, and Phil smiles politely at her as P.J., still riding the high of his time on the swings, waves back. She laughs at that, her grin as warm as the summer breeze, and Phil forces himself to focus on anything else but the stranger with the heart-stopping questions. Still, P.J. cranes his neck to study the trees above them as they cross to the sidewalk and babbles nonsense at them as they walk home, and somehow, that helps loosen the tension in Phil’s chest.

Clint’s infectious smile and easy laugh helps, too. 

“You sure Uncle Phil didn’t lobotomize you or something?” Clint asks as they breeze into the house a few minutes later, and P.J. ignores him to wiggle and grunt. Phil releases him as requested, and the second he hits the floor, he’s dragging himself toward the living room—or, more precisely, toward where Sandy’s sunning herself on the floor. Sandy yawns and rolls over, oblivious.

“He’s going to get a face full of claws,” Phil warns over his shoulder.

Clint shrugs. “Best way to learn,” he offers, and he grins when Phil heaves a sigh. “You missed him and Sandy when you worked the other day. They’re bonding. Hell, the other night, she slept in the guest room bed with the two of us.”

“You mean she slept with you,” Phil corrects, and Clint rolls his eyes. Still, they hover together in the doorway between the front hall and the living room, watching P.J.’s resilient belly crawl. His first few days at the house, he’d barely considered moving from his place in the middle of the rug; now, his hands slap the floor hard enough to echo. 

Phil almost points this out, but when he glances over, he catches Clint frowning. “You think it’s normal?” his husband asks.

He raises his eyebrows. “P.J.’s obsession with the cat?”

Clint snorts and rolls his eyes. “No, the way he crawls.” Phil feels his brow crease, and Clint shrugs. “Read around on the internet the last time the kid kept me up all night, and the websites kind of sounded like he should crawl better than this. Of course, that was before he really started moving around at all, but—”

“Babies mature at a million different speeds,” Phil assures him, and he nudges their arms together when Clint nods unconvincingly. “Really, all kids do, but babies are especially mysterious. Jenny’s son Ernie walked before he crawled, and Clara waited so long to start talking that Sam worried she was deaf.”

Immediately, Clint grins. “Sam figure out it’s ‘cause she’s louder than all four of her kids combined?”

“Would _you_ want to break that news to her?” Phil retorts, and his heart soars when Clint laughs.

Once they’re certain that Sandy’s not going to claw P.J.’s eyes out—she allows him to wrap his chubby fingers around her tail before retreating for higher ground—they surround him with his usual collection of toys and head into the kitchen to dig up some lunch. P.J. pulls himself to standing with help from the coffee table but decides that the remote’s more fun than trying to stalk his uncles. 

Phil laughs as P.J. rapid-fire flips through the various channels and slaps the table with glee.

He’s discovered a PGA Tour replay on the golf channel when the front door bursts open.

“What the hell kind of seventeen-year-old boy takes a girl on a carriage ride?” Kate Bishop shouts the second she crosses the threshold, and Phil and Clint cringe in unison as she slams the door behind her. Her shoes hit the wall as she kicks them off—not that she’s deterred from blazing through their house like a backdraft, of course. “I mean, that’s some second-to-last-episode-of-the- _Bachelor_ level bullshit, right? It’s like every time I think I like him, Eli forgets everything he knows about me and we’re back at square one!” 

She punctuates her rant by throwing up her hands as she stomps into the kitchen, and Clint shrugs helplessly as she walks straight to the fridge and helps herself to a soda. Three gulps later, she slams the nearly empty can on the counter and jabs a finger at Clint. “This is your fault, by the way.”

Clint blinks and points at his own chest. “Me?”

“No, the other guy who keeps telling me to give both of them an equal chance.” Phil purses his lips to keep from laughing at Clint’s eye-roll. Kate scowls at him. “Please don’t tell me you agree with Doctor Barton’s shitty love advice.”

“Doctor Barton?” Phil repeats.

“Like Doctor Phil, but way worse.”

For a split-second, Clint actually looks a little wounded, and Phil raises his hands defenselessly. “I don’t pay attention to your love life,” he promises.

“Lying,” his husband mutters.

“Listening to you complain about her love life is not the same as voluntarily following it,” Phil reminds him, and Clint waves him off as he reaches for the bread.

Kate glances between them for a moment before she groans. “You’re both the worst, and I’m raiding your OnDemand,” she declares, and before Phil’s able to warn her—before he’s able to reply, really—she grabs her soda and heads straight for the living room. 

She freezes three steps from the doorway.

Still standing at the coffee table, P.J. stops chewing on the side of the remote control to blink up at their unexpected visitor. Kate, for her part, blinks back at him. Twice, her jaw flexes like she wants to speak, but no sound escapes.

Finally, she swallows audibly. 

“Either I hit my head on the way out of the carriage or this soda’s gone bad,” she says slowly, “because you guys absolutely do not own a baby.”

From where he’s leaning across the counter with his arms crossed, Clint smirks. “Pretty sure you don’t own them, Katie-Kate.”

Kate rolls her lips together. “Barton?”

“Yeah?”

“There’s a baby in your living room. Your opinion is totally irrelevant.”

She delivers the line so dully and dryly that Clint bursts out laughing, and even Phil can’t help but join in. P.J. grins the second he hears them laughing and lifts his hands away from the table to clap at them. But without his hands to support him, he teeters on his tiny baby feet, and he crashes to the floor before any of them (P.J. included) realize he’s about to fall.

He lands on his butt, his diaper thick enough that he bounces slightly, but his tiny face crumples anyway. He stares up at Kate, undoubtedly searching for one of the familiar people behind her, and Clint shoves himself away from the counter in record time.

Except Kate beats him to the punch.

“Hey, you’re okay,” she says, and Phil stares in mild disbelief as she ditches her bag on the couch to kneel in front of P.J. P.J. sniffs like he’s seriously considering tears, but Kate grabs him under the armpits and props him back up on his feet. “See?” she asks, wiggling him slightly. “You’re totally fine. No crying, yeah?”

P.J. considers her for a second, his expression still weary. But when she wiggles him again and couples it with a smile, he absolutely beams at her. He reaches for the thick ponytail that hangs over her left shoulder, and she lets him wrap his fingers in it as she scoops him up off the floor. “You know, I totally get it,” she says as she stands. “Phil and Barton neglect me, too.”

Clint crosses his arms again. “Telling you to sort your shit is not neglectful,” he reminds her.

“Say that again after you suffer through a carriage ride with Eli Bradley,” Kate returns, and Clint promptly rolls his eyes.

“Is this one of those situations where I need to tell you two to play nicely?” Phil asks, earning not one but two annoyed little glares. “Because while I’m ordinarily okay with turning this car around—”

Clint groans. “She’s not our kid,” he complains.

“I’m definitely less of a kid than you are, Barton,” Kate shoots right back.

“—I’m hungry, and nobody’s going to be any good at fixing your Eli-shaped non-problem on an empty stomach.” Kate casts her eyes down to the floor, her lips pursed and expression actually guilty, and Phil smiles slightly as he squeezes her shoulder. “We’ll feed you, talk, and let you raid our OnDemand.”

Kate quirks an eyebrow. “And explain your baby?”

“Not ours,” Clint says quickly, and Phil’s stomach tenses at the defensiveness in his tone. Kate obviously hears it, too, and she casts Phil a curious glance. Phil shakes his head. Clint, either oblivious to or disinterested in their silent conversation, nudges Kate toward the kitchen table. “Sandwiches, chips, and pureed garbage that smells like death, coming right up.”

“The pureed stuff’s for Clint, by the way,” Phil says over his shoulder, and he feels slightly vindicated when Kate laughs.

An hour and a half later, Kate glances up from the random sitcom they’re watching to squint at Phil. Clint’s at the store, picking up diapers and baby food, and P.J.—

Well, P.J. is draped across Kate like a baby-shaped blanket, his fingers flexing in her hair as he slowly drifts into a much-needed afternoon nap.

They stare at one another for a few seconds, Kate chewing on her lower lip while he raises his eyebrows, and for a moment, Phil swears that the tension twangs like an over-stretched rubber band. He draws in a breath and braces for the sting.

Kate wets her lips. “Two weeks is a long time to leave your baby,” she points out carefully.

Phil shrugs. “It’s definitely longer than we expected.”

She snorts a little at the obvious deflection but turns her attention back to the television. Her brow’s still bunched and her face still contemplative, though, and Phil studies the tight line of her shoulders as he waits for the other shoe to drop.

A few seconds later, she asks, “It freak you out that he’s been gone so long?”

Phil forces a little smile. “Not as much as it should,” he admits, and Kate rolls her lips together before nodding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also posted today: a ridiculous one-shot about Billy and Teddy's last day of summer. Read it [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4620864)!


	5. The Inevitable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, the reality of caring for a baby catches up to Phil and Clint in the worst way. And along with it comes a whole new hoop to jump through—and worse, a whole new crop of fears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to research how medical consent for children works but I hit a pretty huge wall. But given what I remember from my time in child welfare court, I don’t think I’m too far off the mark. If I am, let’s just pretend their state is sort of totalitarian with parents’ rights. Or something like that, at any rate.
> 
> I studied German for seven years in school. Does that mean Kurt will be extra German throughout this story? Maybe. I’m sorry in advance.
> 
> Thanks as always to my intrepid, tireless beta-readers, Jen and saranoh.

On Tuesday night, everything changes.

That morning, for the first time in more than two weeks, Clint wakes up early and ready for a full day of work. Still in bed, Phil props himself up on one elbow and watches as his husband shaves, dresses, and fiddles with his hair. He smells like shampoo and tastes like toothpaste when he leans in to kiss Phil goodbye, and Phil maturely fists the sheets instead of Clint’s tie. 

“Hopefully I remember how to do my job,” Clint says as he pulls away, his smile lopsided and beautiful. 

Phil grins. “If all else fails, show them your ass,” he replies, and he laughs when Clint deep-lunges his way out of the bedroom.

He texts Phil regular updates, mostly snide complaints about annoying defendants or their new crop of interns, and Phil retaliates with artfully composed pictures of his day: laundry, a grocery store run, a lunch of strained peas and sweet potatoes. Better still, P.J. decides after lunch that he’d rather cuddle and nap than crawl around after Sandy, and Phil capitalizes on his quiet mood by snapping at least a dozen selfies.

He naps longer than usual, his tiny face peaceful, and Phil changes his cell phone background to his nephew asleep in a sunbeam.

Clint collapses on the couch when he arrives home from work and immediately covers his face with a throw pillow. “I forgot how suicidal traffic docket makes me,” he complains, muffled by the upholstery.

P.J. squirms impatiently until Phil plops him down on Clint’s lap, and Clint groans as their nephew accidentally slugs him in the softest part of his stomach. “You threatened Bucky’s life for mishandling your docket last week,” Phil reminds him. 

Clint lifts the pillow just far enough to glare. “Bucky deserved it,” he maintains, and flips Phil off for laughing.

But Clint also leaves after dinner for his usual Tuesday night drinks with Bruce and Natasha, his expression equal parts apologetic and eager as he kisses Phil and ducks out the front door. “Don’t worry,” Phil promises P.J. as he waves at Clint’s back. “They’re good friends and everything, but he still likes us better.”

P.J. whines for a few minutes, but he also crawls around the living room like a soldier crossing no-man’s land for a good hour before falling to sleep in the middle of the rug. He babbles sleepily when Phil changes him for bed, and as far as Phil’s able to tell, he’s asleep as soon as he lands in the pack-and-play.

Three hours later, he wakes up screaming.

Phil and Clint both jerk awake at the sound—they’re supposedly reading before settling down for the night, but Phil knows from the way Clint rubs his eyes that he’d nodded off ages ago—but Phil’s the one who kisses Clint on the temple and swings his legs out of bed. In the guest room, P.J.’s standing in the pack-and-play, his face red and splotchy. He reaches for Phil reflexively, a gesture that twists like a dagger in Phil’s chest—except he also shoves at Phil’s chest the second Phil picks him up. He twists and kicks, howling the whole time, and Phil fights against his obvious misery in a blind attempt to calm him down.

“Hey, sweetheart, you’re okay,” he promises as he hikes P.J. up against his shoulder, and P.J. blesses him with one full second of wide-eyed silence before he screams again. Phil sighs, his hand cupping the back of P.J.’s head—and immediately realizes just how warm his nephew feels. When he leans in enough to touch his cheek to P.J.’s forehead (with P.J. pushing him away the entire time), he’s able to confirm his stomach-dropping suspicion:

The baby’s running a fever.

“Should we call somebody?” Clint asks a few seconds later. He hovers in the bedroom doorway, and the obvious worry on his expression sinks into Phil’s stomach like a stone. “Bruce knows all the tricks. Between him and your sisters . . . ”

P.J., his cries now downgraded to light fussing with a side of hiccups, nuzzles his face against Phil’s t-shirt, and Phil shakes his head. “I bought baby Advil at Target last weekend,” he says. “A dose of that and some more sleep, and he’ll hopefully be fine by morning.”

Clint rolls his lips together. “And if he’s not?”

A coil of worry tightens in the pit of Phil’s stomach. “We’ll cross that bridge if we come to it.”

They linger in the doorway for a few minutes longer, Clint stroking P.J.’s back while he blinks his tear-rimmed eyes, but eventually, Clint kisses them both goodnight and retreats back into the bedroom. Phil arranges him and the baby together on the guest bed, his own eyelids almost as heavy as P.J.’s, but sleep eludes him. Twice, he dozes off only to jerk awake, his heart hammering. Worse, his hazy half-awake dreams involve babies in fireplaces—true nightmare fuel, as far as he’s concerned.

The third time he jerks awake, P.J.’s wriggling and fussing.

Worse, his legs and back are coated in foul-smelling diarrhea.

He bursts into tears again the second Phil touches him, his tiny frog-kicks proving just how miserable he feels, and Phil’s not entirely surprised when a naked, sleep-muddled Clint bursts into the guest room. He stares for a moment at the scene—a half-awake husband, a filthy nephew, a room filling slowly with a truly toxic smell—before exhaling hard.

“Shit,” he mutters, and it’s probably a sign of panic that Phil almost laughs aloud.

Clint ends up stripping the baby naked and carrying him away with promises of a cleansing uncle-nephew shower while Phil changes the bed. Phil tries desperately to focus on the task at hand—top sheet, fitted sheet, and pillow cases all into the hamper—but his mind still reels with dozens of potential solutions. He considers another dose of medicine, cool drinks, calling Melinda for advice, a midnight run to the emergency room, but nothing feels like the right answer. And the more he lays out laundry lists in his mind, the more he discovers unanswered questions about his tiny nephew’s health, like the name of his pediatrician, his vaccination history, his allergies, his overall physical condition.

He wonders for one, terrifying moment whether Clint knows anything, and his stomach churns when he realizes they’re flying blind.

He shakes his head to clear away all the dread and drags fresh sheets out of the closet.

P.J.’s fussy but subdued after his shower, his skin rosy pink against his bath towel swaddling, and he pillows his cheek on Clint’s shoulder as they walk into the room. Phil opens his hands in a silent invitation, and the baby stares blankly at him for a moment before turning to hide his face in Clint’s neck.

Clint smirks, a weak shadow of his usual shit-eating grin. “Looks like I’m on cuddle duty tonight, boss. You can go back to sleep.”

Phil frowns. “But—” 

“Might as well avoid having two zombies tomorrow morning.” Clint cups Phil’s hip, his broad hand still warm from the shower, and Phil nearly melts into his grip. “You crash for a while. I’ve got this.”

Phil nods, but something in the pit of his stomach pins him to that spot, the one place in the house where they’re all safe and secure together. Finally, though, he exhales. “If you need a break, wake me up.”

“We’ll be fine,” Clint promises, and kisses Phil goodnight.

Exhaustion rattles through Phil’s whole body as he flops onto their empty mattress, but he somehow forces himself to stay awake long enough to flip on the baby monitor next to the bed. The speaker crackles slightly before picking up Clint’s voice, and Phil listens to the low murmur for a few seconds before he realizes his husband’s sharing one of his college archery stories. “I’m great with arrows,” Clint tells their nephew quietly, “but my form? Form’s a whole other thing, you know?”

As he closes his eyes, Phil smiles.

And an hour later, Clint wakes him for help with a second explosive diaper.

They cycle through the night that way, one of them grabbing a fitful cat nap (sometimes with the actual cat) while the other soothes and monitors the miserable baby. By dawn, though, they abandon all hope of sleeping soundly and hold vigil on the living room couch, their heads propped up on fists and their eyelids boulder-heavy. Now sleepy and a little glassy-eyed, P.J. chews on his hand as he curls against Clint’s chest, almost dozing.

“Water?” Phil suggests, and the baby twists to hide his face against Clint’s t-shirt. In the last hour, he’d refused all but two or three tiny sips. Worse, he’d outright rejected his favorite slightly mashed banana slices, fought against a bottle of formula, and knocked a spoon of strained peas right out of Clint’s hand.

He still smells like his last explosive diaper, but at least he’s finally resting.

At least, until Clint rubs his eyes and asks, “You text Barney at all?”

Phil pretends not to hear the tiny note of hope in his husband’s voice. “Once. After the second diaper.”

“He text you back?”

“No.”

Clint nods unevenly, his posture still slouchy and almost aggressively relaxed, but Phil catches the tension in his jaw and hitch in his breath. Somewhere deep in the pit of his stomach, Phil knows, Clint fights against his feral urge to pace and rage, to clench his hands into fists and shout at whoever will listen to him. 

He’s helped Clint through those moments by gathering him up in his arms—or, occasionally, shouting with him.

Today, though, Clint’s forced to swallow down all those urges and rock their sick, fussy nephew.

Phil spends a few seconds studying the line of his husband’s shoulders before he scrubs a hand over his face. “We’ll give him two more hours,” he says, and Clint raises his eyebrows. “Another shower, another attempt at food and some medication. If he’s still filling his diapers with toxic waste at that point, I’ll ask Jane for the name of the practice they take Astrid to.”

Clint rolls his lips together and rests his cheek on the top of P.J.’s head, but Phil still notices the flicker of panic in his eyes. “You really think he needs a doctor?” 

“I think—” Phil starts, but he stumbles to a stop before he says _we don’t know enough about P.J.’s health to tell if this is normal_. Clint raises his eyebrows, egging him on, and he shakes his head. “You need to sleep a shift,” he says instead, and Clint promptly rolls his eyes. “No, you’ve been up since the second diaper. I can take this shift while you sleep.”

Clint snorts. “You really think I’m going to sleep?”

“I think you can try,” Phil presses. Clint frowns slightly, his brow bunching, and tips his head back toward the baby. For the first time in hours, P.J.’s actually dozing, and he sighs contentedly when Clint strokes his back. Phil scoots down the couch to rest his hand on Clint’s leg. “It’s my turn,” he coaxes. “Set the alarm and check in on us at eight.”

Clint watches him for a moment, his eyes searching Phil’s expression for something mysterious and unknown. Finally, the corner of his mouth tips up into the ghost of a grin. “That really how you wanted to finish your sentence?” he asks.

Phil blinks. “Pardon?”

“I asked if he needed a doctor, you said I needed sleep. That really the thought you wanted to end on?” 

Phil nearly rolls his eyes. “Maybe I’ll tell you if you actually sleep,” he teases, knocking their shoulders together.

“Fat chance,” Clint mutters, but at least he smiles. 

By the time Clint climbs out of bed at eight-thirty, Phil’s successfully showered with P.J. in the hallway bathroom, changed his clothes, and coaxed him into eating a breakfast of sweet potato baby food and formula. 

And at nine, P.J. throws up his breakfast all over Clint’s t-shirt.

 

==

 

The pediatric clinic both Jane and Steve recommend is housed in one of the dozen buildings adjacent to the hospital, and both Phil and Clint swallow down their nerves as they step into Suffolk Central’s looming shadow. Somewhere in the distance, a siren whines, and P.J.’s eyes widen as he searches for its source. For a second, Phil wonders whether P.J.’s as interested in emergency vehicles as he is household pets.

Then, he remembers exactly why they’re in this particular parking lot, and all his momentary daydreams evaporate.

The twenty minutes between P.J. throwing up and now feel a little like a hurricane, and Phil struggles to piece his thoughts together as they head into the squat little brick building. They’d changed P.J. and thrown on clean clothes between frantic texts to their parent friends, P.J. howling all the while. They’d passed him back and forth while trying to calm him, a baby-sized game of hot potato that’d only ended when they’d buckled him into the car and peeled out of the driveway. Clint’d sat in the back with him, smoothing his hair and flashing him big, fake smiles.

Initially, Phil’d tried not to watch them in the rearview mirror.

In the end, he’d missed their turn because his eyes’d kept wandering.

P.J. flops against Clint’s shoulder now, his tiny fingers curled in Clint’s t-shirt, and Phil rubs his husband’s back once as he heads for the reception window. Everything about the waiting room, from the wallpaper to the rack of worn-out Golden Books, reminds him of his pediatrician’s office in Wisconsin from three decades ago. He almost smiles at the memory—and the underlying antiseptic smell common to all doctor’s offices—as he steps up to the counter.

“Hi,” he says, and the woman working at the desk stops typing at the computer to raise her eyebrows. “We spoke on the phone about fifteen minutes ago. I told you I had a sick baby, and you said—”

“Name?” the woman asks.

Phil purses his lips. “Mine, or his?”

“The patient.”

“P.J.,” Phil answers immediately. “Well, Patrick, technically. Patrick Barton.”

The receptionist—Carm, according to her name badge—nods curtly, her fingernails clacking against the keyboard. Phil takes advantage of the momentary pause to glance over his shoulder, and his heart almost melts when he discovers that Clint’s reading to their nephew from a battered copy of _Goodnight, Moon_. P.J. studies the pages sleepily, his fingers in his mouth, and Phil—

Carm clears her throat loudly, and he flinches as he twists back to the window. “I’m sorry. You were asking—”

Her jaw twitches, and it reminds Phil of when Tony Stark forces himself to _not_ roll his eyes. “If you had insurance,” she finishes for him. When he blinks at her, the receptionist sighs. “I don’t know where you used to take your son, Mister Barton,” she explains tightly, “but because he’s not in our system, we need to start from scratch. Insurance information, birthdate, address, his vaccination history—”

“No, I understand that,” Phil cuts her off, “it’s just . . . ” He glances over his shoulder again—this time, to catch P.J. yawning as he presses closer to Clint—and all at once, the exhaustion catches up to him. He rubs a hand over his face and through his hair. “Patrick’s not our son. He’s our nephew. We’re babysitting him for the time being, and honestly, I’m not sure what his insurance situation is. We were just planning to pay for the appointment outright.”

Carm’s back straightens suddenly, her whole body bristling, and when her jaw tightens a second time, Phil’s stomach follows suit. “You’re not his parents?” 

Phil shakes his head. “No, but—”

“Did his parents sign a caregiver consent form?” she cuts in sharply.

“Excuse me?”

“We’re not the emergency room, Mister Barton. We operate under different protocols. And one of those is that we can’t provide treatment unless we have authorization from his parent or guardian.” Phil’s heart drops, but the receptionist ignores his presumably stricken expression to glance back at her computer monitor. “I can print you out the form we prefer, and if you e-mail or fax it to his parents, we can then—”

“His parents aren’t really accessible right now.” Carm raises her head just to frown at him, and he grits his teeth against the little spike of annoyance that’s climbing out of his stomach. “They’re away, and we’re his caregivers right now. And given that he’s vomiting and has diarrhea, he needs to see a doctor.”

She draws in a slow, considering breath, and Phil watches as she chews momentarily on her lower lip. “Sir, I’m sorry,” she finally says, “but it’s obvious you don’t understand. As a legal matter, we are not allowed to treat a child without the express permission from his parent or guardian. End of story.”

Somewhere behind Phil, the door to the actual examination area swings open, and he hears a woman laughing warmly. For a split second, he considers stopping whoever’s opened the door—a nurse or a physician’s assistant, more likely, someone with more authority than a receptionist—but Carm’s still staring him down. 

He sighs. “I completely understand what you’re saying,” he tells her, “but what I need you to understand is that—” 

The end of his sentence drops away the second he hears P.J. coughing, and by the time he whips around to stare at Clint and their nephew, he’s already vomiting. Clint swears and stands reflexively, tipping P.J. forward slightly, and the other mother in the waiting room grabs her six-year-old by the shoulder and physically yanks her back from the splattering, yellow-tinged mess. The second he stops heaving, P.J. starts howling again, and Clint loses one second to shooting Phil a panicked glance before he starts shushing their miserable baby.

The nurse—at least, Phil assumes she’s a nurse, mostly thanks to the combination of cheery pink scrubs and a no-nonsense expression—immediately glances toward the reception counter. “Carm, why isn’t he in an exam room?” she demands. “We’ve seen enough kids with this bug that you should know—”

“They’re not his parents,” Carm retorts, “and they don’t have authorization.”

The nurse snaps her mouth shut, her lips rolling together, and Phil swallows hard around the persistent hammering of his heart. She spends a long moment studying Clint and P.J.—each of them with messy hair and exhaustion-bruised eyes—before her shoulders soften slightly. “Let’s at least put you in a room,” she says gently, and relief blooms in Phil’s stomach. “We’ll see what we can do from there.”

“Thank you,” Phil says, and she nods as she waves them through the door.

As it turns out, their nurse is the mother of twins who are just slightly older than P.J., and she charms him with smiles and belly tickles as she checks his vital signs. Other than his obvious vomiting and his fever—“Nothing apocalyptic,” she says as she replaces the thermometer, “but definitely something to monitor”—she declares him a charming, healthy little boy. He actually smiles when she bops his nose with her forefinger, but the second she disappears back into the hallway, he reaches out his arms for Phil and fusses until Phil scoops him up. 

“Trained you well,” Clint observes, almost smiling.

Phil rolls his eyes. “You, or the baby?” he returns, and Clint snorts a laugh before resting his temple against Phil’s shoulder. 

There’s a knock at the door only a few minutes later, and Phil actually grins at the way Clint groans as he lifts his head. “Come in,” he grumbles, scrubbing the heel of his hand over his face.

“Always glad to know I’m wanted,” the doctor says as he opens the door, but his wide grin proves in an instant that he’s joking. He’s younger than his deep voice suggests, maybe thirty at the oldest, and Phil’s shocked for a moment at the compact solidity of his build. His dark brown hair’s messy and his glasses slightly crooked, but he holds onto the smile even as he crosses to the computer. “I understand that this is Patrick Barton, international infant of mystery. Which makes you two his intrepid uncles?”

“Right,” Phil answers. Next to him, Clint offers only a distracted nod. “We appreciate you seeing us, given that the haziness of the situation.”

The doctor chuckles. “Yes, well, I suspect you’d still be arguing with Carm if Patrick hadn’t decided to paint the carpet a new color.” Phil snorts, and the other man twists away from the computer. “I’m Doctor Henry McCoy. I technically work in the pediatric ward at the hospital, but the clinic was short-staffed and—”

“Drake-hyphen-McCoy,” Clint blurts, and McCoy’s easy grin grows until it’s almost blinding. Phil frowns slightly, but his husband ignores him. “Your husband works with Wade Wilson, right? Family law attorney, drove like a bat out of hell through a school zone last year?”

“I thought the names Clint Barton and Phil Coulson sounded familiar,” McCoy admits, and reaches out to shake Clint’s hand. As much as Phil still worries about P.J. (who hides his face in Phil’s shoulder every time McCoy glances in that direction), he smiles when he realizes just how much McCoy’s presence relaxes his husband. McCoy shakes his hand, too. “Your reputations precede you both. At least, according to Wade.”

“And how much do you trust Wade’s assessment?” Phil asks.

McCoy shrugs. “Only as far as I can throw Wade himself,” he replies lightly, and he winks when Phil huffs out a laugh.

The exam itself is quick and relatively painless, although P.J. fusses the second Phil places him on the examination table and only stops when Clint picks him up after the fact. He clings to Clint’s neck, teary-eyed and whining, as McCoy loops his stethoscope back around his neck. Despite the man’s easy-going manner, Phil still feels a spike of nervousness run through him as the doctor steps away and leans back against the nearby countertop.

“The good news, not that you’ll believe me, is that you have precious little to worry about,” McCoy says after a few seconds. Phil frowns, his forehead bunching against his permission, and he knows from the way McCoy raises a hand that Clint’s expression matches his own. “I realize you’re worried. I’d be beside myself, in your position. As it stands, I won’t come near our daughter after work until I’ve showered. On bad days, I even shower twice.” He shakes his head. “But the truth is, we’ve been seeing this virus on and off for several weeks now. It usually runs its course within about forty-eight hours, although that’s no great comfort to the parents of miserable children.”

Clint rolls his lips together. “That’s it? A stomach bug?”

“That’s all,” McCoy replies, and the sheer confidence in his voice chases all the tension right out of Phil’s stomach and chest. Next to him, Clint slumps against the examination table and runs his fingers through his hair. “Now, that’s not to say you can ignore it, of course. Children this young dehydrate easily. Keep trying to feed him, and if at all possible, coax him into drinking some Pedialyte. I’d expect he’ll be better in another day or so.”

Clint nods, his shoulders relaxing even further, and Phil’s heart flutters slightly when his husband tips his cheek to the top of P.J.’s head. He forces himself to glance back at McCoy. “We weren’t sure if it was something more serious,” he explains, “and given that he’s not ours . . . ”

He trails off, shrugging slightly, and McCoy chuckles. “Our Charlotte is nine weeks old,” he says, “and every time she coughs, I diagnose her with a wide variety of illnesses. Bobby has threatened to taze me on more than one occasion.” 

The corner of Clint’s mouth kicks up into a smirk. “He punish you with midnight feedings?”

“That would assume I wasn’t already in charge of those,” McCoy replies, and despite all the misery of the last twelve hours, Phil laughs.

He offers to pay for the appointment while Clint carries the now-dozing P.J. and their samples of Pedialyte out to the car, and Clint kisses him short and sweet on the temple before disappearing into the glare of a June morning. The receptionist is cool but polite as she swipes Phil’s credit card, but she also studiously avoids eye contact. Phil thanks her and apologizes for the carpet—which is now damp from where someone cleaned up the mess—as he ducks out of the building.

He’s halfway to the parking lot when someone catches him by the arm.

“I’m sorry,” Doctor McCoy says when Phil whirls around, his hands raised defensively and his eyes wide. He’s shucked his lab coat, and his dark blue dress shirt flutters slightly in the breeze. “I’d hoped to catch you both on your way out, but Clint was gone by the time I’d finished entering your chart into the system.”

Phil swallows around the dread that rises in the back of his throat. “Is P.J. sicker than—”

“No, no, your nephew is fine,” McCoy promises, and Phil feels his shoulders and gut unclench. “That’s not the problem. However . . . ” 

He trails off, his lips pressing together nervously for a few beats and his big hands dropping into his pockets. For a moment, he avoids Phil’s gaze to squint into the sun, and Phil finds himself bracing against the rest of his sentence like a physical blow. 

Finally, the doctor sighs. “This is likely not my place,” he says, “but the nurse you saw, Mary, called child services. As much as she felt it was her duty to see your nephew, you didn’t have an authorization for his medical care, and that’s—”

“I know,” Phil says, and McCoy nods. For a moment, they watch one another—McCoy scuffing his shoe against the sidewalk, Phil with dread still churning in his stomach—but then, Phil shakes his head. “P.J. was already on their radar before Barney left him with Clint and me,” he admits. “It’s better they come see him now than another six or eight weeks down the line.”

McCoy frowns. “Is your brother-in-law planning to leave him with you for that long?” 

Phil huffs out a hard breath. “The second I can answer that, I’ll let you know.”

This time, McCoy’s smile never reaches his eyes, but he clasps Phil on the shoulder and wishes him well before jogging back toward what Phil assumes is the office’s back door. Phil watches him until both he and his shadow disappear around the corner—and then, he lingers longer. Aside from covering a couple of Bruce’s hearings, he’s never really interacted with the child welfare system, and definitely never from this perspective. He wonders whether they’ll need to fill out some sort of home study, become certified, attend a class—

And then, he wonders whether P.J. might be removed from their custody and placed with strangers.

When he slides into the car a moment later, his mind still swimming, Clint frowns slightly. “You okay, boss?” he asks from the backseat. “You look kind of like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Phil opens his mouth to reply—to explain McCoy’s warning and why his heart feels like it’s about to splinter and crack—but when he glances over his shoulder, he’s faced with the full, breath-taking effect of Clint’s soft, worried expression. All at once, he remembers the misery Clint faced in the group home and then the misery that followed in Buck Chisolm’s trailer—never mind his righteous anger about Barney abandoning P.J. and disappearing into the dark of a rainy June night.

He forces himself to smile. “I’m fine,” he promises, reaching back to pat Clint’s knee. “Just tired, you know?”

Clint snorts. “You and me both,” he replies, and squeezes Phil’s hand.

 

==

 

The next afternoon, Bruce knocks lightly on Phil’s office door.

“I know you’re just picking up files,” he says, fiddling idly with his watch strap, “but I wanted you to know that the supervisor over at child services e-mailed me about potentially opening a case on—”

“I know.” Bruce blinks slightly, surprise flickering across his expression, and Phil sighs. “We had to take him to the doctor, Bruce. There was no way around it. And frankly, after almost three weeks of this, maybe . . . ”

He shakes his head like he expects that particular treacherous thought to rattle out through his ears, and in the doorway, Bruce nods unevenly. They fall silent after that, Phil sorting through the mountain of files on his desk while Bruce looms. He unhooks and hooks his watch strap, toys with his rolled-up shirtsleeve, and adjusts his glasses, all without another word.

Finally, he asks, “And you haven’t heard from Barney?”

Phil snorts. “Hard to hear from a shadow,” he replies, and reaches for the next folder.

 

==

 

Kurt Wagner arrives Friday morning.

He introduces himself with a bounce and a smile, his whole manner blithe and easy as he stands on their doorstep, and Phil instantly wants to slam the door in his face. Somewhere else in the house, Clint sings an off-key rendition of a Tom Petty song while P.J. harmonizes with delighted, squealing giggles. Phil suspects they’re cleaning the kitchen after breakfast—or, more likely, dancing around the kitchen while pretending to clean.

“Mister Coulson?” Wagner asks, and Phil jerks his head back toward the screen door. The social worker shoves his hands in his back pockets and offers a small, sheepish smile. “The easiest way to do this is to let me in. Otherwise, there are usually police and attorneys, and no one wants that.”

Phil sighs. “You’re right about that much,” he admits, and unlocks the screen. 

Wagner nods his thanks as he steps into the foyer, and Phil works hard to return the favor. In the last few years, he and Wagner have only ever crossed paths a handful of times—once at some interdisciplinary CLE, the rest during hearings that Bruce’d missed for one reason or another—and every time, Phil’d been impressed. Wagner speaks softly but carries a big stick covered in razor blades, and as far as Phil can tell, he’s not afraid to swing it.

Bruce adores Wagner for that very reason.

Phil’s stomach sinks just thinking about it.

He leads the social worker through the house anyway, past the cat sunning herself on the living room rug and the tiny pile of baby-friendly toys. He refuses to glance over his shoulder, afraid that he’ll discover some sort of disapproval in Wagner’s expression. He’s spent enough time in the district attorney’s office—and more than that, in Bruce and Tony’s general vicinity—to know how child welfare investigators work. They don’t stop scrutinizing your life just because you offer a smile and some coffee.

Especially not after they’ve received a report about sick babies and a lack of medical care.

“And I don’t know the rest of the words,” Clint sings as they walk into the kitchen. He spins P.J. around by the armpits, the baby squealing. “But that’s okay, ‘cause Uncle Phil’s not here to tell us to sing Springsteen instead.”

He dips P.J. like they’re in a 1940s dance hall, P.J. crowing the whole time, and when he finally lifts his head, he discovers Phil and Wagner standing in the doorway. All at once, the color and mirth drain from his face, and he snaps to attention fast enough that Phil feels it in his teeth. 

P.J.’s grin falters in almost the same instant, and he immediately twists to hide his face in Clint’s t-shirt. “Hey, buddy, you’re fine,” Clint soothes, ducking his head. “Just an uninvited visitor, nothing to worry about.”

Phil frowns. “Clint—”

“And if he even tries for a second to steal you away like one of those bad fairies from a bedtime story, I’ll—”

“Clint,” Phil repeats, harsher this time, and Clint falls silent.

“For what it’s worth, I’m not here to take anyone anywhere,” Wagner says. Clint huffs out a hard breath, his face still halfway hidden, and Wagner raises his hands. “I know what you’re thinking. ‘He’s German _und_ a social worker, he is worse than all of the bad fairies.’ But unlike some of my coworkers, I am not in the business of breaking up families for sport.”

The sincerity in his tone helps loosen the tangle of fear in Phil’s stomach, but only just. He rolls his lips together. “We never suggested—”

“ _Herr_ Barton suggested,” Wagner interrupts with a small shake of his head, “and he has every right to worry. You work in the district attorney’s office. You know how these cases sometimes go.” Clint lifts his eyes, almost curious, and Wagner hazards a tiny, nonthreatening smile. “But my family— Well, I could fill a whole book of scary bedtime stories with tales from my own family. And because of that, I work harder than most of my office—perhaps all of my office—to keep from tearing loving families apart. I don’t think that’s my job.”

“Then what is your job?” Clint asks.

“Keeping them together.” Clint huffs again, almost rolling his eyes, and Wagner shrugs. “You don’t have to believe me. You don’t have a reason to. We’ve met—once, _oder_? When you stood in for _Herr Doktor_ Banner on the Michaelson case. Two little boys, their father in jail and their mother—”

Clint’s expression softens as he says, “Ditched them with the babysitter and ran off with her new boyfriend.” He rocks the baby for a second, thumb stroking P.J.’s back. “Their grandmother ended up taking them in, right?”

Wagner nods. “Not unlike this case, really.” 

Clint nods, too, his brow crinkling slightly, and Phil watches as he dips his head back down toward P.J. In all of the time together—two full years as a couple, another few months as friends—Phil’s never quite managed to break through the last layer of armor that separates him from Clint’s years in the child welfare system. Sure, Clint throws out occasional references to the group home he and Barney lived in or the social workers who’d visited the Barton family farm long before his parents died, but the details remain cloudy even today. And no matter how much time or how many internet searches Phil devotes to the cause, he knows that the only way he’ll ever fill in the gaps in Clint’s history is with Clint’s help.

But Clint views those years in the home—and more than that, the years with Trick—as a liability, a black mark on his personal history that he’ll never erase. Everything Clint values, everything he holds dear, they all stem from the day he left the trailer park armed with nothing but a backpack and his bus card. Forcing him to backtrack to those darker days feels unfair and selfish.

Even when, like right now, those experiences cast long shadows over the rest of Clint’s life.

After another tense second or two of silence, Clint finally lifts his head, his face the very picture of rugged determination. “He stays with us, okay?” he says, and Phil hears the fear that hides under all the bluster. “I know there’s a whole system for all this—you’ve gotta evaluate us as people, check out our house and our budget, probably interview all our friends ‘til we feel violated—but if there’s any way you can swing it, P.J. stays here, with us.”

Wagner holds his expression perfectly neutral. “Agreed.”

“And we’re both lawyers,” Clint reminds him. “We do this kind of stuff all the time. You try to screw us around, and—”

“I already agreed to do what I can, _Herr_ Barton,” Wagner interrupts, raising his hands again. “Anything beyond that is in the hands of a higher power.”

Clint snorts. “That a reference to God?”

The corner of Wagner’s mouth kicks up into a smirk. “Or to my supervisor,” he replies, and this time, Clint’s snort sounds mostly like a laugh. 

They end up starting with a tour of the house—“The easiest part,” Wagner promises with another crooked smile—and Phil forces himself to remain calm and neutral as they wander through the familiar halls. The overall cleanliness of the place leaves a little to be desired—after all, they’re still adjusting to life with a baby, never mind recovering from P.J.’s gastrointestinal issues—but Wagner never comments about the small pile of laundry in the bathroom or the slight disarray in the laundry room. Really, he spends more time commenting on their movie collection (split evenly between action films and documentaries, if Phil’s honest) and bookshelves (including Phil’s complete collection of Tom Clancy novels) than inspecting the house itself. Better still, his occasional observations and easy laughter slowly coaxes P.J. out of his shell, and by the time they’re standing in the back yard, P.J.’s watching him carefully, a chubby hand in his drool-sticky mouth.

Wagner grins at him and wiggles his fingers. “You are as cute as promised,” he informs the baby, and P.J. beams before once again hiding his face in Clint’s shirt.

Clint snorts. “You’re playing shy, this time,” he teases, and P.J. giggles when Clint bounces him. “Yeah, figures you’d like the guy who mocks our bookcases.”

“It’s not my fault that lawyers should not read John Grishams,” Wagner says, his voice nearly a sing-song.

“And the fact you can comment on them proves you’ve got the same shitty taste I do,” Clint retorts, and the social worker grins as he finishes scrawling something in his note pad.

“The good news,” Wagner says once they’re back inside, his elbows resting on the kitchen island as he reviews his notes, “is that there are no red flags here. You’re taking good care of your nephew. Your house is appropriate. Really, there’s no reason not to pass you with flying colors. In a different world, I would walk right out that door, and you’d never see me again.”

Something deep inside Phil’s stomach, something he’d spent the whole walkthrough fighting against, clenches involuntarily. 

Worse, Clint bristles visibly. “But ‘cause we live in this world, it’s not that easy,” he guesses.

Wagner’s mouth tips into a rueful half-smile. “Precisely.” His eyes—a startling light golden brown that remind Phil of a cat—soften as he glances up from his notes. “This is the second report about your nephew. The first one, we postponed. We thought giving your brother a little time and some guidance, it might stave off the inevitable. Obviously, that hasn’t worked.” He shakes his head slightly. “I will have to file an application for emergency placement with your office. Today, if at all possible.”

Phil swallows around the sudden, thick feeling in the back of his throat. “I know we’re lawyers, but we’re new at this. You need to explain to us what that looks like.”

Next to him, Clint snorts and rolls his eyes. “The hell do you think it looks like?” he asks, and Phil purses his lips when he realizes just how tightly his husband’s clinging to their nephew. “They open the case, drop P.J. with some strangers, and we—”

“No, _Herr_ Barton, not at all.” Wagner keeps his voice soft and even, but there’s still somehow a razor-sharp edge to his tone. He catches and holds Clint’s gaze until Clint snaps his mouth shut. “We open a case, yes. There’s nothing I can do about that. And we will see if we can’t use that case to help find your brother and Allison.”

“Ally,” Clint corrects automatically.

Wagner nearly smiles. “Ally, then. But you and your husband have cared for P.J. without any incidents. If he hadn’t gotten sick, you could have carried on for months. Many families do. And unless something unexpected comes up, there’s no reason for us to put him in a foster home. End of story.”

“But what about Barney and Ally?” Phil asks—or at least, he tries to ask, but he’s interrupted by P.J. reaching out and plastering tiny, greedy fingers over his lips. He laughs almost involuntarily as he lifts his nephew from Clint’s arms, and even Clint can’t stand on his smile. Once P.J.’s toying with the collar of his t-shirt instead of his mouth, he continues, “I know they’re missing now, but I don’t expect they’ll stay away long-term. Barney especially.”

“Parents don’t usually leave their children forever,” Wagner agrees, and Clint huffs out a breath and crosses his arms over his chest. The social worker shrugs. “Your brother-in-law and his girlfriend were already on our radar. Ally’s mother, _Frau_ Henderson, filed a report about Barney not caring for P.J., but even before she involved herself, there were worried neighbors. Reports that P.J. cried for long periods in the middle of the night. That they left him with friends for too long.”

He pauses, and Clint raises his eyebrows. “So?”

“So,” Wagner continues, “we will do the same thing with them when they return that we would have done if Barney never left P.J. with you two: we will provide them services. Help them find jobs, if that’s what they need. Offer assistance in finding daycare, health services, social programs. Whatever they need to parent your nephew.”

Phil nods slightly, but when he glances back at his husband, he discovers that Clint’s studying the floor. Twice, he parts his lips like he’s about to speak, but his shoulders tighten each time, and he ends up rolling his lips together instead. Phil feels the same storm that rushes across Clint’s face brewing in his own stomach; the only difference is, his poker face is better.

Or, he thinks, he’s never learned to care as deeply and passionately as Clint.

“What if they’re in trouble?” Phil asks the third time Clint hesitates, and he studiously ignores Clint’s immediate, sharp-eyed stare. “If it goes beyond just needing temporary assistance or job training? If their problems are more complicated than that?”

Wagner lifts a shoulder. “We will help with that, too. Just as I’m sure you and Clint both will.”

Phil nods a little, not entirely sure of the answer, and tips his head in Clint’s direction. P.J., a master at silently following his gaze, whips his head around too, and Clint very nearly smiles. He reaches out to cup the back of P.J.’s head, his touch almost painfully gentle, and Phil can’t resist leaning in to kiss the back of his hand. 

They stand like that for a minute, shoulder-to-shoulder in their kitchen with their nephew studying their faces. Then, one deep breath later, Clint says, “Okay.”

Phil frowns. “Meaning . . . ”

“Meaning all of this,” Clint says, gesturing loosely to the space around them. “To filing the case and actually setting up paperwork so we can take care of the kid. To finding Barney and helping him. To whatever has to happen to make this all—” He pauses, his voice sticking, and he shakes his head the second Phil reaches to touch his arm. “He’s our nephew,” he continues, his gaze searching Phil’s. “He’s family. The only acceptable answer is okay.”

Phil draws in a breath around the sudden pressure in the center of his chest and, by some miracle, musters up a smile. “Okay,” he agrees, and Clint smiles back.

 

==

 

That night, Phil heads out on a run.

He kisses Clint and P.J. goodbye and charges out the front door like a shot, his feet finding a rhythm against the concrete long before his mind realizes he’s even left his own front yard. He runs like a hunted man, runs with the reckless abandon of a college-aged sprinter, and when that first burst of energy wears off and his lungs start burning, he breathes deep and keeps his pace. 

He runs until his vision narrows to only the sidewalk and streets ahead of him, until the only sounds he hears are the rushing of his heartbeat in his ears and the steady slap of his sneakers against the pavement. Better still, he runs until his _mind_ narrows, until he lives in a world without Barney Barton or Allison Henderson, until he returns to the days when the only people in his immediate realm of concern consisted of himself, his family, and Clint.

He runs until his legs feel like jelly, and he keeps running.

He runs like all his worry and fears are nipping at his heels, like the last few weeks are about to catch him, like looking back over his shoulder will transform him into salt or maybe stone. And when his knees finally liquefy and he all but doubles over from exhaustion, he discovers that he’s soaked in his own sweat and trembling like a leaf, his body betraying him.

Worse, he’s only about a mile and a half from home.

“I’m too old for this,” he tells no one, and clutches his knees to keep from falling over.

Somewhere else in the city, miles away, Thor Odinson is reviewing the documents Wagner submitted to the district attorney’s office and preparing for a Monday morning hearing. Nick’d called that afternoon to practically rip Phil’s head from his neck, and Phil—earning at least ten _good friend in the worst circumstances_ bonus points—had endured about five minutes of it before politely telling him to shut the hell up. 

“If you need to conflict Bruce off the case, then conflict him off the case,” he’d said, maturely hiding from his husband in the laundry room, “but yelling at me about the situation isn’t going to—”

“You think I’m worried about telling my overworked, underpaid child welfare attorney to take a breather?” Nick’d sniped, and Phil’d immediately snapped his mouth shut. “Hell, that man is practically a casebook in how to keep ethical in fucked up circumstances. I’d probably let him keep the case if he didn’t go out drinking with your husband all the damn time. No, I’m calling ‘cause I’m worried about _you_.”

Phil’d rubbed his forehead. “I’m fine, Nick.”

“Two weeks ago, I’m sure you were. Maybe even last week. But social workers and official paperwork placing the kid in your custody? That’s a whole new world, to quote my daughter’s new favorite movie.” Phil’d snorted, a smile creeping onto his face without his permission, but Nick’d just sighed. “I trust you more than I trust most people, my wife excluded. But I need to know that you’re handling this with both eyes open.”

Phil’d closed his eyes just long enough to lightly bang his head against the nearest wall. “I know.”

“You sure about that?”

“No,” he’d admitted, “but if I say it often enough, it just might come true.”

Phil thinks about all that now—about keeping both eyes open, sure, but also about the complicated spider web of paperwork and red tape that’s about to stretch out before him—and he tips his head back to squint into the sunset. Deep down, he knows that this sun’s the same one from before Barney and P.J. appeared on their doorstep, but it feels entirely different, too. Like the world’s tilted on its axis, leaving him with a crooked point of view.

And with a little boy who reaches for him like he’s a lifeline.

He scrubs a hand over his face and resumes his jog.

The first mile and a half stretches into two and three miles, and the street lights flicker on just as Phil slows to a walk two blocks from home. He waves to a neighbor as he wipes the sweat from his brow. The weight of Wagner’s visit—or, more specifically, of the impending court case and all the possible trickle-down consequences—still feels heavy on his shoulders, but he knows he’s sweat at least some of it away.

He’s still dabbing at his temple when his cell phone rings in his pocket. He accepts the call blindly as he rounds the corner. “Before you complain,” he warns, “you can probably see me from the porch even as we—”

“Don’t hang up,” the man on the other end cuts him off, and his breath stills in his chest the instant he recognizes Barney’s voice. “I deserve it, I know, but please don’t hang up.”

Phil swallows, his mouth suddenly desert dry, and he loses a moment listening to Barney’s rough breaths in his ear. Once or twice, the connection stutters, and Phil worries he’s hung up until another breath crackles down the line.

Finally, he drags fingers through his sweat-damp hair. “You shouldn’t be calling me. In the grand scheme of your life right now, I’m the bottom rung of the ladder. You should be calling—”

“My brother?” Barney demands, huffing out a coarse almost-laugh. “Yeah, I’m not really in the mood to hear about how I fucked up this time. Not today.”

“But you’re in the mood for my lecture on why you need to call your brother?” Phil immediately challenges.

“No, I’m in the mood to hear how my kid’s doing.” Barney practically spits the words, his tone low and gravelly, but Phil hears the sincerity that lurks beneath. Like when Clint plays the bad cop in Kate Bishop’s life, Phil catches himself thinking, and he shakes the thought out of his head. On the other end of the line, Barney breaks up the silence with a sigh. “I just gotta know how he is, okay? And maybe that’s the wrong thing after leaving, but I—”

“They’re opening a child welfare case Monday,” Phil interrupts, and his brother-in-law instantly falls silent. “They’ll try to contact you and Ally. To bring you into the case, offer you services. Help put you back on your feet from whatever’s driven you away.”

Barney snorts. “Because it’s just that easy.”

“Because nobody wants to keep you and P.J. apart,” Phil retorts. Barney huffs down the phone, undoubtedly ready to argue, and Phil rolls his eyes. “Barney, I don’t know what happened to you and Ally, and honestly, I don’t care. What I care about is you coming home to your son. If that means lending you our help or money—hell, if it means you live in our guest room for six months—then we’ll do that. But you need to come home.” 

His voice rises on the last few words, not a shout as much as an exclamation mark, and he watches as a woman stops watering her hanging baskets to squint at him. He forces a quick smile— _nobody here but us nonthreatening middle-aged attorneys, thanks for asking_ —and waits for the deafening silence on the other end of the phone to finally break.

But Barney says nothing, his breathing broken only by the bad connection and the blast of a car horn somewhere in the distance.

Phil sighs. “They need you, Barney,” he finally says, softer than before. “Your brother and your baby, they both need you here.”

“Yeah, you sure about that?” Barney returns, and he hangs up the phone before Phil formulates an answer.

Phil stands on the corner for a long time after that, the red-orange sky transitioning to pink and purple as he stares down at his phone. The number that glares up at him is unfamiliar, nothing he’s ever programmed into his contacts list, and when he tries calling Barney back, he’s informed that the voicemail’s full. 

He hangs up, clears the number from his phone, and shoves it back into his pocket.

A few minutes later, he discovers that Clint and P.J. are waiting for him on a blanket in the front yard, and the baby immediately drops from his awkward, teetering stance to start belly-crawling in Phil’s direction. Clint laughs and reaches for him, a lazy attempt to rescue him from grass stains, but Phil catches him first. P.J. laughs and babbles as Phil scoops him up by the armpits and dangles him above his head, and Phil’s heart sinks and sings at the same damn time.

Clint leans back on his elbows and grins. “Will you believe me if I said we were hunting lightning bugs and definitely not waiting up for you?” 

“Absolutely not,” Phil replies, and Clint laughs again. The light in front of their house combines with the last dying rays of sun to highlight all of the crinkles around his husband’s eyes, and Phil fights the urge to drop onto his knees and kiss him. “You actually catch any fireflies?”

“Turns out, ten-month-olds like destroying bugs, not catching them.” Phil snorts and shakes his head, but he’s also acutely aware of how closely Clint’s studying him, sweat-stained t-shirt and all. “You have a good run?”

Phil shrugs. “Can’t complain,” he lies, and tickles P.J. to make Clint smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you noticing that I am still very behind on comments: yes, I know. I've been alternating between very busy and struggling with some chronic health issues that I have, and the end result is that comments keep falling to the bottom of my to-do list. However, the health problems are finally clearing up, so I hope to hit comments soon. I'm sorry again for the delay, because I do feel terrible about it.


	6. Work-Life Balance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Phil and Clint become P.J.’s official, court-approved caregivers and return to life as usual. Except returning to the normal routine is both easier and harder than it should be, and forces Phil into an action he'd rather not take.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Years ago, I used to be very tech-savvy. Those days are long gone. Instead, I offer you only completely fictionalized technology courtesy of Skye. If you know lots about the real world of technological advances, please prepare to cringe. 
> 
> Warning for a brief joke about Matt Murdock’s blindness, a brief reference to suicide, and a reconfiguring of some canon child abandonment. But I swear, it’s mostly a happy chapter!
> 
> Thanks as always to my magnificent rockstar beta-readers, Jen and saranoh. They knew how to spell damnedest. I did not.

“Well, we had to do _something_ ,” Darcy says with a shrug on Monday morning, and Clint beams.

P.J., a true master mimic in the field of facial expressions and general shows of emotions, immediately mirrors his uncle’s big grin, and no fewer than six members of the Suffolk County District Attorney’s office melt at the sight of the smiling Barton boys. A few even whip out their cell phones in an attempt to capture the moment for all time, not that Clint really notices. No, Clint bounces P.J. on his hip and bops his nose, and even Natasha’s expression softens when the baby laughs.

Still caught in the doorway between the hallway and the conference room, Phil seriously considers joining in on the mirth. After all, he’d love a picture of his glowing husband and nephew. More than that, he’d love to slip under Clint’s arm, become part of the moment. But somehow, the lump in his throat hampers him and glues him to the spot.

Well, the lump in his throat and his damp eyes.

The lump, the dampness, and the still-crashing waves of relief threatening to drag him away from shore.

Plus—

“I’m printing you a copy for your creepy desktop shrine to Clint,” Maria comments suddenly, and Phil jerks his head up. When he blinks away the dampness, she rolls her eyes. “Please. You have a snapshot for every occasion. At last count, you have more pictures of your husband than Steve has of Dot.”

Despite the churning deep in his stomach, Phil snorts. “This from the woman who keeps a sonogram picture taped next to her monitor.”

“Only so I remember I can’t drink away the pain,” Maria retorts, and promptly shoves Phil through the door.

The crowd of coworkers parts immediately, an office party retelling of Moses and the Red Sea, and within seconds, Phil’s stepping into Clint’s personal space. Clint grins at him, his face warm and open, and snakes his free arm around Phil’s waist. “Hey, boss,” he greets.

“Hey yourself, court-approved family foster placement Clinton Barton,” Phil replies, and he swears the whole room feels lighter when Clint laughs.

In all honestly, Phil’s not totally sure who arranged the _Welcome to Club Small Child_ banner hanging across one of the conference room walls or the _It’s a nephew you hid from your friends!_ cake waiting on the table, but he suspects the blame lies firmly with Tony Stark. After all, Tony’d spent his Saturday evening entertaining P.J. while Clint and Phil had decidedly _not_ panicked about the pending child welfare case with Bruce. Or rather, he’d complained loudly about babies while building increasingly complex building block cities for “P-zilla” to destroy—and, of course, while also eavesdropping on the conversation in the kitchen.

“You both know what they say about Foster Club, right?” he’d asked at one point, his head popping up over the back of the couch. Bruce’d sighed and closed his eyes. “No, really. It’s basically the first rule of Foster Club.”

Clint’d smirked. “If it’s ‘you don’t talk about Foster Club,’ they should kick you out.”

Tony’d waved a hand. “That’s the rule for lonely child welfare attorneys who want to marry their best friend and raise his adopted, racially ambiguous babies, not for all Foster Club members.” Phil’d grinned, and across the table, Bruce’d hidden his tiny smile behind his beer. “No, the first rule is that you let all your friends meet and spoil your foster kid. The sooner, the better. No delays, no hesitation, no hiding the drooling light of your life under a bushel.”

Phil’d raised an eyebrow at Bruce, who’d shrugged. “We had another hair brush incident,” he’d explained.

“Which, again, we could’ve avoided by stoking the ‘Aunt Natasha with the pretty curls’ fire six months ago,” Tony’d retorted, and set P.J. loose on another complicated tower.

P.J. spots Tony in the conference room crowd and immediately reaches for him, his fingers stretching out and drool sliding down his chin. Tony, predictably, backs away with his hands raised. “No offense, spawn of a Barton even less responsible than Clint, but _hell_ no. I’m the emcee of this momentous occasion, not the baby-wrangler. Go visit with Hill or something.”

Maria scoffs and rolls her eyes. “Like I need another twenty pounds of dead weight in my life,” she says, gesturing to her swollen belly.

“Practice makes perfect,” Tony shoots right back. She scowls, but he shrugs her off. “We’ll deal with your questionable transition into parenthood later. Today, we’re talking about Coulson’s.”

“And Clint’s?” Natasha asks from where she’s picking through the cheese cubes.

“No, I’m leaving that roast to someone who’s better suited to Barton-torment,” Tony replies.

She considers this for a moment, nods, and reaches for her punch

Phil tries to roll his eyes—to brush Tony off, to ignore his whole speech (which begins with him climbing on a chair and the phrase “four score and a thousand years ago, because Coulson is _that_ old”)—but a second later, he catches Clint’s eyes and all his hesitation fades away. Because Clint smiles from ear to ear as he balances their nephew on his hip, his laugh lines bunching and his cheeks warm, and all at once, Phil loves everything about this moment. He loves his ridiculous coworkers, the enormous blue-and-white cake, the lingering effect of the adrenaline still coursing through his veins. More than that, he loves Clint and P.J., loves last night’s sleeplessness and the morning’s promises, loves all the soft kisses and wandering touches that grounded them through this process. And even though he feels guilty about it, right now, he loves Barney and Ally’s disappearing act, Wagner’s failed attempts to find them, and Judge Smithe’s official decision to place P.J. in Clint and Phil’s home. 

He loves feeling like part of a big, ever-extending family, and for one of the few times in his life, he feels absolutely deserving of their time and affection.

“Now, don’t get me wrong,” Tony says, teetering dangerously on his chair until Bruce grabs his hip, “Coulson will absolutely ruin this kid. He’ll be the most fastidious toddler in human existence. But as someone who built robots all through grad school, I think it’s important that our resident asexual android learn a few things about frustration.”

The crowd laughs, and Phil decides that, right now, he even loves Tony.

He shudders slightly at the thought, and at his shoulder, Clint frowns. “Okay?” he asks quietly.

Phil smiles. “Perfect,” he promises, and bumps their hips together.

The last few hours—really, the last day—feels like a blur, and as much as Phil wants to listen to Tony’s gentle roasting, part of his mind desperately tries to cobble together and categorize the time leading up to the first hearing in P.J.’s child welfare case. Wagner’d called a few times over the course of Sunday night, updating them on his attempts to find Barney and, to a lesser extent, Ally. By the time Monday’d dawned, a hot and humid late-June day that bore down on Phil like a physical weight, they’d both vibrated with worry and fear—worry and fear that still lingers, even as Phil smiles and laughs with his friends.

In the end, though, Barney’d remained a mystery, a ghost in the wind. 

“This sometimes happens,” P.J.’s guardian ad litem, a woman named Wanda with dark hair and a lilting accent, explained. She’d smiled when P.J.’d wrapped greedy baby fingers in her necklace. “Parents become skittish. They don’t want to come and admit that they’ve made poor choices, so they stay away.”

“Even if they know about the hearing?” Clint’d asked.

Wanda’d smiled sympathetically. “Especially then,” she’d said quietly, and Clint’d nodded as he’d glanced away. 

Because of Barney’s absence—his default, technically—Judge Smithe’d only needed to review Wagner’s affidavit before deciding to place P.J. in state custody and, by extension, a family foster care placement.

And for the first time in almost three days, Clint and Phil’d exhaled.

Phil exhales now, too, but only because someone jabs him in the ribs with an elbow. “You keep zoning out,” Maria warns, “and I’m confiscating your cake.”

“And eating it herself, because Sylvester the Swiss Chard demands a tribute,” Jasper comments, and Maria swings around to smack him.

Phil laughs, totally out of time with Tony’s speech, and P.J. responds by reaching for Phil. Clint releases him with one last little bounce, and P.J. babbles merrily as he settles into Phil’s grip—and shoves Phil’s tie into his mouth. Phil grins and tickles his belly, but the damage’s already done; instead of paying attention to Tony, everyone’s shifted their attention to the giggling baby.

Tony throws up his hands. “Upstaged by a toddler,” he complains, hopping off the chair.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Bucky intones, and Steve chokes on his punch.

Within a few minutes, the party—or, as Tony’s apparently dubbed it, the “unexpected foster baby shower”—devolves into the usual office chaos, only this time, the chaos includes random cuddles with the baby. To his credit, P.J. allows both Darcy and Jane to hold him before dissolving into panicked whimpers, and he only relaxes when Clint sidles up to the women and musses up his hair. He follows P.J. on his circuit around the room, a hand on the baby’s back even as he’s passed from Steve to Bruce, and despite his best efforts, Phil can’t tear his eyes away. He studies and catalogues every smile, every laugh, every tiny glimmer in both his husband and his nephew’s faces, and the longer he watches them, the more the last hints of tension finally seep away.

He wonders for a moment if Tony felt the same way, watching Bruce with Miles almost two years earlier.

Then, he catches a glimpse of Tony’s smile _now_ , of the warmth in his face as he watches his husband play peek-a-boo with P.J., and Phil realizes he already knows the answer.

“It’s a good look on him,” Pepper remarks suddenly, and Phil whirls around to discover her standing at his shoulder with two cups of coffee. She holds one out for him. “But I assume you’ve known that for the last—what, three weeks now?”

Phil shrugs. “I always suspected Bruce’d be an excellent parent.”

“Wow, deflection in a record half-second. I’ve obviously hit a nerve.” He rolls his lips together, his eyes dropping to the coffee, and Pepper reaches out to touch his arm. “No more comments about how good your husband looks with a baby, I promise.”

“Or I’m concocting my comeback for when the baby train reaches your girlfriend.” Pepper chuckles at that, a tiny smile crawling across her face, and Phil smiles back. Across the room, P.J. steals a pen out of Bucky’s front pocket. “And for what it’s worth, Clint’s a natural with P.J. Whether he’ll admit it is another story.”

“I’d say the same about Natasha if she wouldn’t overhear and threaten me,” Pepper replies, and Phil snorts. When he glances away from Clint and their nephew, however, he discovers her studying his face. “You know this is the part where I ask how you’re coping.”

He rolls his eyes. “Makes you the latest in a long list.”

“Do you blame me?” He sips his coffee instead of answering, and Pepper sighs. “Phil, I’ve known you long enough to know you’re feeling something about this situation. Never mind the fact you’ve only worked, what, four days in the last three weeks—”

“Six,” Phil corrects. “Everything else has been covered by leave.”

“Because whether you’re accurately reporting your hours is my real concern,” she retorts sharply, and Phil glances away again. “Phil, your brother-in-law disappeared without a trace and left you with a baby,” she continues after a beat, “and that baby’s integrated himself into your life. He’s _become_ your life, really. And now that you’re officially his foster placement, I just want to know that—”

“That I can handle it?” Phil cuts her off. She raises her eyebrows, a clear response to the sharpness in his tone, and he sighs as he shakes his head. “Now that he’s officially in foster care, we can sign him up for daycare. Go back to our normal routine, instead of focusing all our time and energy on worrying.”

Pepper purses her lips briefly. “And you’re okay with that?”

Phil works hard to maintain eye contact instead of glancing across the room to where Thor’s complimenting P.J.’s grip strength. “He’s not our baby.”

“Funny how nothing in that sentence prevents the inevitable emotional splash-down that comes with losing a kid you love to his parents.” Phil rolls his eyes as Tony approaches with a plate full of cheese cubes, but Tony shrugs him off. “Not my fault you need a certified Pepper-to-human translator.”

“And here, I thought I understood the conversation perfectly without your help,” Phil returns.

“On a surface level, maybe. But without me, you’d never reach the Tootsie Roll center of Pepper’s bullshit lollipop.” He tosses a cheese cube into his mouth as Pepper scowls. “She’s not worried about your life-work balance, she’s worried about the part where Barney reappears with his ‘Model Citizen and Father’ certificate.”

“I never said that,” Pepper defends tightly.

“No, you just wandered down the cherry path and hoped he’d read between the lines.” This time, Pepper’s the one to roll her eyes, but Phil knows from the way she tightens her jaw that Tony’s interpretation is right on the money. Tony smirks. “You’re welcome.”

“I’m going to pour hot coffee down your shirt if you don’t stop talking.”

“Just one more scar for Bruce to thoroughly appreciate,” Tony replies, and Pepper cringes at his eyebrow waggle. “And speaking of our foster parent husbands, let’s circle back that emotional splash-down thing we were just talking about.”

He punctuates the point by wiggling a finger in Phil’s direction, and Phil lightly pushes his hand away. “You’re the only one who wants to talk about—whatever it is you’re describing.”

“Yeah, we’re all aware of how patently untrue _that_ one is,” Tony returns, and Phil swallows. “Because lemme tell you, even good old Matt Murdock knows that you daydream about tiny little Clint-shaped babies every time you look at that kid.”

Pepper’s brow bunches slightly. Phil raises his eyebrows.

And Tony heaves a sigh at both of them. “Murdock’s blind,” he explains. “Meaning that, if he can see you daydreaming, it’s really— You know what? I’ll abandon my joke, but the point still stands.”

He even raises a hand, a sure sign of surrender, and Phil bites down on his smile. In the corner of his peripheral vision, he glimpses Clint and P.J. clapping together—Clint’s attempt to show off the baby’s favorite parlor trick, most likely—and he knows his face shows it when Tony snaps at him. “That,” he says, pointing again, “is the face of a man desperate for a little Clint.”

“Or a man who likes seeing his husband happy,” Phil suggests.

“And who’s clearly not thought this all the way through to the baby-returns-home endgame.” Phil shakes his head a little, but he knows exactly how many emotions flash across his face while Tony’s expression suddenly softens. “For the record, and not that you’ll believe me, I crawl my way in and out of that hole about twice a week.”

Phil snorts. “Because your adopted son and orphaned foster children are likely to end up with their parents.”

“Child,” Tony immediately corrects, one finger in the air. Phil blinks, and the other man shrugs. “You’re right that Teddy’s an orphan—lost both his folks years before he landed on our doorstep—but Amy’s got a mom. One who, even as we speak, is trying her damnedest to prove she’s capable of parenting my seven-year-old.”

Pepper smiles wryly. “Last time I checked, she wasn’t yours.”

“At this point, and accounting for almost nine months of night terrors and ice cream runs, she’s definitely our daughter.” He punctuates the statement with a nonchalant swig of his coffee—almost like he’s just delivered the day’s weather forecast—but Phil discovers instantly that he’s actually _not_ surprised. If he’s learned one thing about Tony Stark in the last year, it’s that he’s a devoted, loving, and thoroughly imperfect father to all the children in his life, Amy included.

Phil wonders for a split second what kind of father he’d be, and he drops his eyes to his coffee.

“And because she’s at least half ours,” Tony continues, “I’ll happily admit that I cringe every time Jessica updates us on how her mom’s coming along. Not because I don’t want my kid to be happy—because trust me, that’s a constant pursuit in the Banner-Stark household—but because I physically can’t imagine our life without her in it.”

When Phil raises his eyes again, he catches Pepper nudging Tony’s shoulder. Tony nudges back, his smile not reaching his eyes, and Phil rolls his lips together. “P.J.’s different,” he says after a beat. “He’s my nephew, no matter where his parents are. I’ll still see him even when he’s home.”

“And tuck him in at night?” Tony presses. “Play peek-a-boo when he’s sweet and sleepy after bath time? Witness _that_ display of love, up close and personal, every day of the year?” He nods across the conference room, and when Phil twists in that direction, his heart drops into his stomach. Because over at the far end of the conference room, Clint’s chatting with the new crop of interns while P.J. pillows his head against his uncle’s shoulder, one hand in his mouth and the other hand clutching Clint’s tie. Every time Clint grins, P.J. mimics him, his eyes big and bright as he watches his favorite person in the universe.

Phil knows firsthand how warm and intoxicating Clint’s smile can be.

He swallows around the churning in his stomach.

“And that,” Tony says plainly, “is why I define ‘inevitable emotional splash-down’ as the rock bottom you hit when your kid stops being your kid.”

He finishes his coffee with a flourish, his face half-hidden by his oversized coffee mug (because Tony refuses to acknowledge the “tiny Styrofoam shot glasses you call coffee cups” from the breakroom), but in that moment, Phil swears he reads a hundred different emotions on the man’s already-open face. His usual flippant nonchalance and incorrigibleness remain, of course, but stubborn defiance and fear lurk beneath the surface, a leviathan ready to strike. All at once, Phil remembers how much of Tony’s ridiculousness is really a distraction from his big heart, and he wonders exactly how much of that heart belongs to a seven-year-old Girl Scout with messy curls and a love of baked goods.

He waits until Tony finishes drinking before he asks, “How likely is your splash-down?”

Tony shrugs. “Judge Reese gave Mama Jimenez a last-chance ultimatum last hearing. I’m not hoping she fails, but on the other hand . . . ”

He trails off, his voice suddenly distant, and Pepper reaches out to squeeze his arm. “It’s complicated,” she tells Phil.

Tony rolls his eyes. “You say it like that, I sound like a real person,” he complains, and Phil snorts as he smiles.

Twenty minutes later, Tony’s voice still rattles around in Phil’s head as he discusses the newest batch of appellate court decisions with Steve and Bucky. But rattling or not, Clint sidles up to him and presses a kiss close to his ear. “Mind trading places while I answer a call of nature?” he asks, voice low. “‘Cause as much as I like the kid—”

“You’re not to the point where you can do it with a baby on your hip?” Bucky guesses. Steve smiles even as he rolls his eyes, and his husband smacks him lightly in the chest. “You got to head to work eight hours a day. Never dealt with a clingy baby who didn’t want you peeing.”

“Except for all those times you caught a cold and wanted company,” Steve replies blandly, and Phil nearly chokes on his coffee.

Bucky’s smirk promises no fewer than six bawdy stories—probably including all the times Steve’d “nursed” him back to health, knowing his sense of humor—but Clint ignores him to glance at P.J. “Remind me to never leave you alone with Barnes, ‘cause he’s got even less shame than me.”

Bucky snorts. “I doubt _that_.”

“Unlikely,” Phil agrees with a grin.

Steve shrugs. “Could go either way, actually.”

“Everybody’s a comedian,” Clint grumbles, but his laugh lines completely undermine his complaint. He bounces P.J. on his hip a couple times before swinging him into Phil’s grip. “You be good for Uncle Phil, yeah? No more chewing on ties.”

As if on cue, the baby stretches out his greedy little hands for Clint’s shiny, spit-stained purple tie, and Clint kisses his tiny palm before bounding out of the conference room.

P.J.’s still peering after him when Steve comments, “That man sure adores your nephew.”

Phil’s chest tightens just enough that his smile feels more like a grimace. “We both do,” he says honestly, and holds P.J. a little closer.

 

==

 

“You missed this, didn’t you?”

“You mean your constant criticism?” Phil asks as he glances up from the long list of case assignments, and across from him, Natasha snorts quietly. For the first time in three weeks, the piles of folders on his desk qualify only as foothills instead of mountains, and he’s able to watch as she shakes her head and returns to her notepad. 

He frowns. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Given that Clint wants to embroider _Silence from Romanoff is the calm before the storm_ on one of our living room throw pillows: not nothing.” Natasha rolls her eyes but refuses to glance up. Phil sighs. “If you’re still upset I assigned that arson to Steve—”

“Because flaming riding mowers really get my motor running,” she retorts. He blinks, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, and she jabs her pen in his direction. “Don’t.”

“But—”

“Steve’s a bottomless pit of dad jokes. I’m not suffering through them from you, too.” Phil raises his hands in defeat, chuckling to himself, and Natasha shakes her head. “Three weeks with a baby, and already you’re groping at the low-hanging fruit.”

“To be fair, his idea of a hilarious joke is a rousing game of peek-a-boo,” he replies, and she huffs at him before ducking her head again.

After almost three full weeks of sleepless worry and endless baby-wrangling, returning to the district attorney’s office full-time reminds Phil of those glorious first days home from college after a tough semester. In those days, he’d flopped back on his creaky twin bed, cranked the Led Zeppelin until the speakers crackled, and basked in the familiar noises of his parents’ house settling in the sticky Wisconsin summer. Here, the wheels on his desk chair scrape against the plastic floor mat and the air conditioning ruffles the edges of his legal pad, but he’s still bolstered by the tell-tale hum of the office as his friends and coworkers move through their day.

In his mind, he pictures their energy like an electric current, a physical force he can tap into and draw from.

At least, until Tony bellows for Pepper at the top of his lungs and shatters the illusion.

The color-coded spreadsheet on Phil’s computer monitor blurs a little in his vision, and he pushes his glasses up onto his head to rub his eyes. Between his absence and Maria’s looming maternity leave, their file organization system is in shambles, and his one goal for the week is to wrestle it back into some semblance of order. 

Yesterday, he and Steve had lost about three hours poring over Steve’s case assignments. Monday, Tony’d thrown a hand-written and mostly illegible list of appeals in the middle of his desk and declared, “Good luck.”

Today, Natasha taps her pen against her mouth and stares out the window.

Phil twists to follow her gaze, squinting against the bright glare of the late-June sun. The dark shadow of a bird passes by, but otherwise, the sky is as clear and blue as in one of Dot’s art projects. (Phil knows this only because her latest creation, “The House Where Mister Phil’s Cat Lives,” is taped to one of his file cabinets.)

He glances away from the window, but Natasha’s eyes remain distant. He purses his lips. “Am I being punished?”

She blinks. “What?”

“I know you hate two-thirds of your case assignments right now. Passed off an animal cruelty case to Steve when Fury said you couldn’t pursue the death penalty.”

Natasha wrinkles her nose. “I like cats.”

“Yes, and this state abolished the death penalty twenty years ago. Also, don’t change the subject.” She crosses her arms over her bright red blouse, and Phil tips back in his chair. “You hate your cases,” he repeats, “and at least one half of your friend group has been completely preoccupied with a baby lately. So, I ask again: is this silence an attempt to punish me through paranoia?”

The corner of Natasha’s mouth twitches slightly. “Would that work on you?”

“Like you don’t know the answer to that already.” She smiles finally, her shaky breath almost a laugh, and Phil abandons his glasses on top of one of the file foothills to study her. “You’re worried.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re big boys, capable of caring for yourselves.”

“Big boys in a ridiculous situation and cut off from the rest of the world, but otherwise, you’re right.” She purses her lips, the distant, half-distracted expression returning, and Phil sighs. “Natasha—”

“You’re capable of caring for yourselves and your nephew,” she interrupts, and he pauses for a split-second before snapping his mouth shut. “I’m not like Pepper and the dozen other people in this place who figure you’re ten seconds away from an emotional break. You’re better adjusted than that.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Is that a compliment?”

“Only if you don’t tell Clint about it,” she retorts, and smiles when Phil chuckles. “It’s just obvious, in a way, how much you missed this.”

“This?” he repeats.

“ _This_.” She gestures all around them, at Phil’s office as a whole and the half-closed door behind her, and Phil swallows almost involuntarily. “The work part of your work-life balance. Assigning cases and agonizing over color-coded spreadsheets.”

“My spreadsheets keep this office running,” he reminds her.

“No, coffee and those crack-coated doughnut holes Peggy brings in every Wednesday keep this office running. Your spreadsheet’s a distant third.” She pauses. “Maybe fourth, if you count the Sitwell-baby gambling ring.”

He points a finger in her direction. “There is no way Maria names that baby after any of her living relatives.”

“Says the man who thought Astrid’d be a boy.”

Phil rolls his eyes, waving off her wry little smile, but something deep in his stomach clenches slightly. He breathes around it, but he knows from the way Natasha raises her eyebrows that his discomfort shows on his face. He studies his monitor for a moment before he admits, “It’s hard.”

“What is?”

“Spending every waking moment worried about your husband and your nephew.” He scrubs a hand over his face and flicks his gaze back to where Natasha’s still watching him. “Ever since Barney showed up on our doorstep, my whole life’s revolved around Clint and P.J. They needed a rock to stand on, and me? Well, I’m a pretty good rock, especially when compared to my brother-in-law.” She snorts softly, and he almost smiles. “But trust me when I say that case management and hearings about the meaning of the word ‘guest’ are about three thousand times _less_ stressful.”

Natasha’s brow bunches. “The house party case?”

“According to Laufeyson, they stop being minor houseguests and transform into minor business patrons when you sell Solo cups as a kegger entrance fee.” Natasha scowls, and Phil holds up his hands. “For what it’s worth, Judge Nguyen agrees with you.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t know how Sif Rowan puts up with that asshole.”

“I still suspect her brother’s threatened him into his very best behavior.” She cringes again, and Phil grins slightly as he drops his hands back onto his desk. “I know it’s only a court order and a stipend for state-approved daycare,” he says after a beat, “but somehow, I finally feel like the sky’s _not_ falling.”

Natasha purses her lips, but she also keeps studying him, her eyes sharp and steady as they travel his face. Finally, she nods. “As long as you’re okay,” she decides.

Phil smirks. “And you said you weren’t worried,” he teases—and ducks when she flings her pen at him.

 

==

 

“You’re super cute and also the _worst_ ,” Kate Bishop sing-songs Thursday night, and bops P.J. on the nose with a stuffed rabbit.

P.J. squeals and leans forward, his grabby baby hands reaching futilely for the toy, and he’s only thwarted when Kate whirls around to smack Clint’s foot. Clint yelps and jerks his whole leg away. “What was that for?” he demands.

Kate huffs and tosses her messy fishtail braid over her shoulder. “You know.”

“Wanna bet?” 

“You were about to kick her for calling P.J. the worst again,” Phil supplies, and both his husband and his unofficial protégé jerk their heads to where he’s standing in the kitchen doorway. P.J. follows their gazes and finger-waves; Phil grins and waves back. “Uncle Clint’s incapable of handling any insults about your honor, isn’t he?” 

Clint scowls. “She keeps calling him names, he’ll learn them.”

Kate rolls her eyes. “He’s a baby. He barely knows where his own toes are.” As though proving her point, she tweaks P.J.’s big toe. He almost falls over in his haste to grab his own foot. “Besides, he’s only the worst because he’s the cutest. Right, Peej?”

“Don’t call him Peej,” Clint complains, but to no avail: P.J. giggles and claps his hands, obviously recognizing the variation on his name. Kate flashes him a killer grin, and he buries his face in his hands. “You’re ruining my nephew.”

“Hey, you had a three week grace period. Now, the initi-Kate-tion begins.”

Clint groans aloud, probably more at the pun than anything else, and Kate laughs as he flops dramatically onto the nearest throw pillow. P.J. loses a couple seconds glancing between them before he decides the display’s funny rather than scary and giggles again, his whole body vibrating. Kate praises him for choosing the side of right, and Phil’s heart swells with pride when P.J. recognizes that an outstretched palm means a high-five.

“You’re smarter than your uncle,” Kate decides after P.J. demonstrates his excellent understanding of “down low.”

Clint raises his head just far enough to glare at her. “Keep it up, and we’re not feeding you,” he warns.

A sparkling little smirk crosses her mouth as she glances over at Phil, and Phil allows her three full seconds of suspense before he shrugs. “Or we’ll give you double dessert, depending on who you ask,” he replies casually.

The sound of Clint’s pained moaning follows him into the kitchen.

Kate and Clint pick up their conversation—mostly about the frustration of teenage friendships and Billy Kaplan’s perfect love story, as far as Phil can tell—before he finishes chopping the tomatoes for their salad, and he smiles to himself as he listens to the normal ebb and flow of their bickering. Like always, Kate’d stormed across their front yard like a Valkyrie, full of sound and fury as she’d abandoned bags and shoes in their foyer, but this time, her rant’d ended with the words: “And that’s why I need to play with the baby.” 

Now, a half-hour later, she’s sprawled out on the living room rug, spilling her guts to Clint and slightly mangling a stuffed animal.

P.J. occasionally abandons his blocks to reach out and pat her hair.

Phil drops the tomatoes and mozzarella into a bowl, but instead of immediately reaching for the vinaigrette, he glances back over his shoulder. Kate’s sitting up now, P.J. in her lap and babbling happily, and she nods at him as though she understands before directing her next complaint about teen life at him. On the couch, Clint watches and smiles, his face so warm and peaceful that Phil’s chest tightens against his will.

He knows, of course, that he and Clint share the same serenity, one borne of a return to their old, comfortable routine.

But he also knows that Kate and P.J. deserve some of the credit, too.

The salad’s chilling in the fridge and the chicken sautéing on the stovetop when nimble feet pad across the room. “I’d ask to lick the spoon,” Kate comments as she hoists herself onto the kitchen island, “but I’m pretty sure that’s how your foreplay starts.”

Phil shrugs. “Always room for one more.”

“ _Ew_ , what?” Kate demands, and he twists back toward her just in time to watch her full-body recoil. She pulls her legs up in front of her chest. “You know you’re both old enough to be my dad, right? Because if you didn’t already figure that out—”

“I meant room for one more spoon-licker, Kate,” Phil reassures her, and he laughs when she stretches out a leg to kick his hip. He spoons a little more sauce over the chicken and closes the lid. “You tired of playing with the baby and decided to bother me, instead?”

“Baby committed a crime against humanity in his diaper, and since Barton’s already a giant, smelly mess . . . ” She trails off with a shrug, and Phil snorts a guilty half-laugh. He’s still shaking his head when she drops her legs and allows them to swing against the cabinet. “His dad’s still not back,” she points out after a few more seconds.

Phil rolls his lips together. “I know.”

“It’s bugging Barton, even though he’s keeping his mouth shut about it.”

Phil barely resists his urge to sigh. “I know that, too.”

“America’s offered to punch Barney in the dick whenever he shows back up.” Her deadpan delivery catches Phil off guard, and she rolls her eyes at his sputtering. “I’m serious. Her dad blew her off. Before he killed himself, I mean. Anyway, she’s all about punching deadbeat dads in the—”

He holds up a hand. “I get it.” 

“You get it, but are you doing anything about it?” Something about the honesty in her voice—never mind her piercing eyes that, somehow, remind Phil of his husband’s—steals his breath, and he swallows. She watches him for a second before she asks, “You know my therapist, Jessica?”

Phil’s mouth twitches involuntarily. “Depends on whether I can e-mail her to say you just voluntarily called her your therapist.”

Kate wrinkles her nose at him, and he almost chuckles. “One of the things Jessica always talks about is how _you_ are the first step to improving a bad situation. Even if you just need to recognize your role in the whole mess or change your attitude, fixing the problem usually starts with you.” 

He narrows his eyes slightly. “Are you trying to become my Jessica?”

She shrugs. “Find me six other messed-up adults who need to talk about their feelings, and sure.” Her face lights up when he laughs, and the little bolus of tension in his stomach loosens slightly. Kate leans back on her elbows. “P.J.’s missing dad sucks,” she finally says. “And even if P.J.’s safer now that there’s a court involved, his missing dad won’t stop sucking. The question is whether you can do anything about it.”

“Truth is, I’m trying.” She raises her eyebrows a little at that, and Phil slumps against the counter. He rubs a hand over his face, exhaling, but it mostly sounds like a sigh. “Barney called me,” he admits, pausing just long enough to watch Kate carefully swallow her surprise. “I deleted the number he called from, but that hasn’t stopped me from Googling his name every twelve hours. Or—”

“Driving by the trailer park?” He blinks at her, and she immediately drops her eyes into her lap. “I maybe saw a car that looked like yours.”

He frowns. “At the trailer park?”

“Around there, yeah.” She swings her legs for a moment, leaving Phil to study the guilt (or maybe, he thinks, simple embarrassment) that creeps across her expression. Finally, though, she lifts a shoulder. “You’re not the only person who worries about Barton, you know.”

“Obviously,” Phil says gently, and Kate smiles when he reaches out to tap her on the knee. He allows them both a few seconds of silence while he checks the chicken. “Under everything,” he admits quietly, his back still turned, “I’m not that worried about Barney. He’s spent most of his life scraping by without anyone else’s help, and I’m pretty sure he’ll keep scraping by with or without us. But leaving P.J. here, making us his caregivers, that . . . ”

He shakes his head, the words escaping him briefly, and covers the pan again before turning back to Kate. She watches him carefully, her expression considerate, and for a moment, Phil forgets that she’s only seventeen years old. In that moment, she reminds him of a combination of all the strongest women in his life: as unflappable as Pepper, as steel-willed as Maria, as secretly gentle-hearted as Melinda. He almost says that very thing, too, when Clint and P.J. burst into the kitchen.

“Look what this little hell-raiser just figured out!” Clint announces, and Phil frowns slightly as his husband plops their nephew down in the doorway before joining him and Kate over by the stove. P.J. blinks up at him, his tiny brow furrowing, and immediately sticks his hands up in the air. When nobody springs to his rescue, he kicks his feet in frustration.

Phil sighs. “Baby-torment is not part of—”

“Just wait a second,” Clint interrupts. Phil very nearly rolls his eyes until he realizes that P.J.’s maneuvered from a sitting position and onto his belly. He lingers for a moment, his face a mask of pure concentration—and then, all at once, he starts crawling forward.

Not scooting. Not dragging himself with his palms. Actual, all-fours crawling.

Clint hoots in victory, ignoring Phil’s surprised blinking to reach over and high-five Kate, and P.J. pauses halfway in his trek across the kitchen to offer them all a cheeky little grin. He squeals and kicks his feet when Clint scoops him up. “The crawling wonder!” he declares, displaying their nephew like he’s newborn Simba in _The Lion King_.

P.J. crows and waves his arms, and Phil can’t stop himself from grinning.

“You know babies are _supposed_ to learn how to crawl, right?” Kate asks once Clint’s settled P.J. back onto his hip (and smoothed his messy hair back into place). “It’s a basic baby skill, really.”

Clint scowls and points a finger at her. “Not even _you_ can ruin this moment for me, girly-girl.”

“Ga-ah guh,” P.J. agrees seriously, a sticky hand also flying out in her direction, and they all lose one full second to staring at him before they burst out laughing.

 

==

 

“Please stop crying,” Clint murmurs late that night. “I know you’re freaking out. Me too. But you’ve gotta stop crying.”

His voice is a whisper, like wind whistling under the doorjamb, but it somehow ties Phil’s stomach into knots, anyway. He’s alone in bed, his head pillowed on his arm as he watches the little green light on the baby monitor flicker. In the room down the hall—“Still the guest room,” Clint insists, despite the neatly folded stacks of baby clothes and the now almost-permanent pack-and-play—P.J. whimpers before he starts crying again, his howls echoing down the hall as well as through the tiny speaker. Somewhere in the middle of all the noise, Clint sighs, shuffles his weight around, and shushes the baby again.

He stops crying for a few seconds, content with fussy noises. The surest sign of an overtired, overstimulated baby, one who crawled circles around the living room after dinner and played a dozen rounds of peek-a-boo with Kate.

The longer the silence stretches, the tighter Phil’s chest becomes.

He rolls his lips together and waits.

“I know, I’m lousy at this,” Clint admits after another few seconds, a crackling secret Phil’s not meant to hear. “I’m not your dad, you know? I don’t sense what you want, I can’t—” His voice catches briefly, and Phil closes his eyes against the weight of the quiet that follows. “Hard as I’m trying, I know I can’t be that to you. I know I’m just a placeholder ‘til he shows back up. But we’ve gotta make this work in the meantime. Okay? Until your dad’s back, we’ve gotta hold it together.”

He falls silent again, and for a moment, only P.J.’s whimpers echo through the baby monitor. Phil sighs as he imagines Clint soothing their nephew, stroking his hair and kissing him goodnight. Phil’s watched almost two dozen goodnight kisses at this point, and he sometimes swears he’s memorized every detail.

He’s about to drift off to that thought when Clint sighs. “Your dad’ll come back,” he says quietly. “He’ll come back, and he’ll love you right. The way you deserve.”

The heartbreaking earnestness in Clint’s voice carries through Phil like an electric current, and he swears for a moment that he feels something inside of him crumble and disintegrate. He picks up the pieces just long enough to lean over and switch off the baby monitor—just like Clint did when he climbed out of bed fifteen minutes earlier.

He rolls away from the empty space next to him and stares at a silver spot of moonlight on the wall. How he keeps breathing evenly, he’s not entirely sure.

Clint flips the monitor back on when he returns ten minutes later, and Phil allows him a couple seconds of silence before he rolls back over. When he spoons up behind his husband, he discovers that the shoulder of his t-shirt smells like baby powder. He burrows his nose into it, a scent so natural and right on Clint that he swears he might drown.

As he closes his eyes, Clint sighs again. “We wake you up?” he asks.

Phil shakes his head. “Only just now,” he lies.

“Too bad. Missed me putting him to sleep by talking about _Super Nanny_.”

There’s no humor in Clint’s voice, but somehow, Phil manages to chuckle. “I’ll eavesdrop next time,” he jokes back, and kisses the side of his husband’s neck before they both pretend to sleep.

 

==

 

“You know what you’re asking for isn’t technically legal, right? Because at best, the legality is ‘cloudy with a chance of me being arrested.’”

Skye Carson tilts back on her desk chair as she says this, her long hair dangling over the back, and for one terrifying moment, Phil thinks she’ll shoo him right back out her office door. Despite her age (twenty-three, according to her official personnel file), her nonchalance (because even now, she sits with her feet up on her desk), and her questionable taste in office décor (a blend of _Harry Potter_ and _Star Wars_ ), she runs the judicial complex’s IT department with an iron fist, and Phil knows she’s exactly who he needs for this job. Even though, to her point, said “job” really toes the line between “legal” and “serious cyber-stalking.” 

He taps his phone against his palm, his lips rolling together. Skye watches him, her face expertly neutral.

“You dug around when Melinda asked,” he points out after a moment.

“Yeah, because digging around for public records and Facebook aliases is the same as trying to track down a guy using only his cell phone number and my feminine wiles.” Phil frowns slightly, and Skye sighs. “Fine, okay. No feminine wiles, just some hand-built software. But either way: you’re a lawyer. A prosecutor, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Which is why I say again: you plus your mystery man, his phone number, and my software? Balanced right on the line of ‘acceptable’ and ‘handcuffs.’”

She delivers the line without ever blinking away from him, and for a moment, Phil considers the one _other_ fact he knows about Skye Carson: her youthful indiscretions mostly involved computer crimes and almost kept her out of this very office. Phil’d personally sat in on the meeting with Fury, Chief Judge Hammersmith, and the county commissioner as they’d discussed whether to allow a former teenaged hacker unfettered access to their technology systems. 

Except three weeks into her probationary period, Skye’d executed some complicated server transfer that’d sped up the whole system. Six months later, she’d been promoted from a sad little cubicle to an office with actual walls.

And now, she watches Phil, her arms crossed over her chest and eyebrows raised. 

Phil glances down at his phone one last time. “Whatever you do needs to stay firmly on _this_ side of the acceptable-versus-handcuff continuum,” he says. “Not just because I have an ethical obligation to uphold the law, but because the last thing I need is you getting in trouble on my behalf.” He meets her eyes. “Understood?”

She worries her lower lip for a moment. “And if it’s the difference between me finding him and _not_ , I should—”

“Not risk either of us losing our jobs,” Phil repeats. “Deal?”

“Given that I’m pretty sure adult prison is a lot worse than juvie, absolutely.” She swings her legs off the desk and, without even a second’s pause, ducks down to dig through a halfway-open drawer. “Just toss your phone on my desk, and once I pull the meta-data from your last couple calls from him, I’ll—”

“I, uh, deleted the call history.” Skye jerks her head up, and Phil shrugs. “I didn’t know until last night I’d be asking you for this, and since he called more than a week ago—”

“You know nothing’s ever _really_ deleted anymore, right?” she cuts him off, and promptly rolls her eyes when he blinks at her. “If you knew how much of my job consisted of rescuing quote-unquote lost documents, you’d lose your faith in humanity. It’ll just take me a couple extra minutes.”

“Right,” he replies dumbly, and hands over his phone. Skye hums in approval, drags a cable out of a drawer, and within a few seconds, she’s tapping away on a laptop that is definitely not county property. Phil lingers, his hands in his pockets, and contents himself with studying the various bobbleheads and photographs that line Skye’s desk.

After all, if he stops to consider what he’s actually doing—asking another county employee to help hunt down his brother-in-law using the phone number from a week ago—he might question his ethics. 

Or worse, his sanity.

(Or, he thinks to himself, he’d remember the helplessness in Clint’s voice last night, the sorrow that lives under his smiles-and-baby-tickles exterior, and he’d ask Skye to ignore the law and just find Barney.

He’s not a fan of either outcome.)

He’s busily squinting at a photograph of Skye and her friends—the juvenile clerks and former intern Grant Ward included—when she asks, “What’s your deal with this guy, anyway? He your ex or something?”

Phil purses his lips as he glances over to where she’s still completely focused on her laptop. “Melinda didn’t tell you when she had you poking around on my behalf?”

Skye huffs out a breath. “May gave me a name, a home address, and one of her death-stares. Not exactly a full dossier of Phil Coulson’s mystery man.” He chuckles a little, but before he finishes shaking his head, she glances over at him. “He murder your family and leave you desperate for revenge?”

He blinks. “What?”

“Barney Barton. He murdered your family, and now, you’re looking for justice.”

Phil rolls his eyes. “He’s my brother-in-law.”

“Yeah, and he murdered your family, forcing you to—”

“He left his son with me and my husband,” Phil breaks in, and a little flash of guilt runs through him when Skye immediately snaps her mouth shut. He sighs, his shoulders softening, and shakes his head again. “His name’s P.J., he’s ten months old, and I just really want to find his dad.”

They stare at each other for a few seconds, her fingers perfectly still, and more than once, Phil swears he spots something sad tugging at the corners of her carefully schooled expression. Finally, though, she nods and twists back to the computer.

There’s no more conversation after that, just the constant percussion of Skye’s fingers on her keyboard, and Phil finds himself leaning against the cinderblock wall after he’s finished inspecting her dusty collection of plastic Yoda figurines. He closes his eyes against the glare of the fluorescent lights and tries desperately to focus on the laundry-list of work tasks waiting for him upstairs, but as usual, he fails. Instead, his mind plays the last week and a half of his life on auto-repeat: the court hearing, the conference room party, the return his usual work routine, P.J. learning to crawl. An ordinary life, in a way, one where he wakes up with his husband, works hard at a job he loves, and returns home—and all with the added bonus of P.J.

Except P.J.’s just their nephew, and he needs his dad.

A tinkling chime noise from Skye’s computer jerks Phil out of his own head, and by the time he’s pulled himself away from the wall, she’s already holding out his phone. He wraps his hand around it, ready to thank her, and blinks when she tightens her grip rather than loosening it.

“My parents dumped me as a baby, too,” she says, and he purses his lips as his heart sinks like a stone. “Left me on the doorstep of a church, never to be seen or heard from again. They didn’t even leave a note with my name, which is why I grew up as ‘Mary Sue Poots,’ if you can believe it.” Phil snorts involuntarily, and the corner of Skye’s mouth twists up into a tiny smile. “I guess what I’m saying is, your nephew’s pretty lucky to have you and your husband looking out for him.”

Despite the knotted feeling in the pit of his stomach, Phil smiles back at her. “I hope you’re right about that,” he admits, and tucks his phone in his pocket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I continue to be horrifically behind on comments. Soon, friends. Soon.


	7. Siblings and Nephews

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Phil’s sister Jenny brings her boys for a visit. Phil enjoys their company, but not necessarily the hard truths that trail in after them—or the way those truth remind him of everything he’s feeling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I probably put the Fourth of July on the wrong day of the week, but this is fiction. July 4, 2014 can fall on whatever day I want it to. I am all-powerful that way.
> 
> Simon Augustus Barnes, called Augie, is Bucky’s older brother. For more about him and his relationship with Bucky, read [“Water of the Womb”](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1815214) and [“Degrees of Consanguinity.”](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2058690)
> 
> Again, anything about technology is an outright lie.
> 
> Thanks as always to my marvelous beta-readers, Jen and saranoh, who constantly help me improve, well, pretty much everything about my words.

“Uncle Clint!” Ernie and Earl shout in perfect unison, and Clint barrels out the front door.

Phil grins as his sister threatens her sons with a wide variety of parental wrath, but by the time he reaches the front stoop, the damage is done: Clint is sprawled out on the front lawn and laughing as he wrestles two stocky ten-year-olds. Jenny heaves a sigh as she climbs out of the minivan, her hands raised. 

“I am not responsible for their actions,” she claims.

Phil raises an eyebrow. “Giving up already?” 

She glares at him. “You would too after two days in a car with those boys,” she retorts, and he laughs. 

Jenny rolls her eyes in disapproval, and the sun glints off her golden brown hair as she heads for the van’s back hatch. Even though the weatherman keeps promising a horrible heat wave for Sunday’s Fourth of July festivities, the weather this morning is breezy and comfortably cool, the kind that encourages you to open the windows and enjoy the day. As far as Phil’s concerned, it’s the perfect weather for a work-free Friday and a visit from their nephews. 

Or rather, a visit from some of their _other_ nephews.

He watches for a few moments as the twins pin Clint to the ground, all three of them laughing until they’re red-faced and wheezing. By the time he reaches his sister, Clint’s thrown Ernie off his right side and rolled to remove Earl from his left, and he smiles as she shoves a duffel back at him. “Don’t look so charmed,” she chides, and nods to Clint when Phil raises his eyebrows. “He had all those skills long before your little visitor.”

Phil snorts. “I know.”

“Do you?” He ignores her needling to reach for another bag, and she shakes her head at him. “I’m surprised you’re not showing him off like a teacup pig.”

“If I’ve learned one thing in the last two years, it’s that Clint preens pretty well on his own.”

“Oh, trust me, I’ve noticed.” Phil rolls his eyes at the _promise_ in her tone (never mind her flirtatious little smirk), but she disregards him as she grabs another bag. “But I obviously meant your tiny house guest, not your husband. Or as Sam’s starting to call him, the star of the Coulson Family Group Text, patent pending.”

“He’s only the star because Clint enjoys sneaking pictures when I’m distracted,” Phil grumbles. When Jenny’s whole face splits with a grin, he groans. “Please don’t tell me there’s another one.”

“Are you kidding? There’s a new _series._ ” She tosses the last bag onto the driveway in order to drag her phone out of her back pocket, and Phil immediately feels his face flare bright red. Because the background on Jenny’s phone isn’t any of her children or step-children, but rather a cringing Phil in a soaked work shirt holding a screaming, naked P.J. at arm’s length. 

He resists the urge to bury his face in his hands, but Jenny keeps grinning. “He called it the ‘Uncle of the Year’ collection.”

“Am I still P.J.’s uncle if I divorce Clint?” Phil wonders aloud, and Jenny smacks him lightly even as she laughs. He allows her to load him up with the last bag before adding, “He’s taking a nap, by the way. Crawling’s really wearing him out.”

“Think he can wear _them_ out?” She tips her head toward the front yard, and Phil glances over to find that all members of the dogpile are now sitting cross-legged on the grass. The boys pass an iPod Touch back and forth while Clint grins at them, and Phil’s heart warms without his permission. His sister just shakes her head again. “Every time Alec’s kids go to their mom’s house, I mourn the loss of my live-in entertainment. Add in their dad being in Spain for that conference _and_ a long car ride . . . ” 

Phil grins. “You mean driving down with Augie Barnes and his significant other didn’t help?”

She shoots him a dangerously dirty look. “It’s two days in a car with rambunctious ten-year-olds. Augie and Andrew can only do so much.”

She throws up her hands as she says this, the very picture of maternal frustration, and her grimace only increases when Earl lifts his head from his iPod. “Andrew isn’t always his name, Mom,” he chides.

Still sitting in the grass, his t-shirt dusty with loose dirt (and riding up in a way that leaves Phil momentarily distracted), Clint blinks blankly. “What’s his name when he’s not Andrew?”

Ernie shrugs. “Andi with an I,” he answers, flopping back onto the ground. “And he’s not a ‘he’ on those days, either.”

Phil glances over at Jenny, who opens her hands defenselessly. “We learned a lot on the drive, yesterday,” she confesses, and walks straight into the house.

He stares after her for a few seconds, weighed down with bags and a little helpless, but he shakes off his surprise to follow her inside. “You good?” Clint calls after him once he’s wrenched the door open, and Phil pauses just long enough to study his husband over his shoulder.

His beautiful, tan husband, a man with a grin brighter than a thousand warm summer afternoons and shoulders that look criminally broad in his old t-shirt.

“We’re fine,” he promises, and Clint actually winks at him as he crosses the threshold.

He deposits all of Jenny’s bags in the corner of the guest room, careful not to disturb the fresh sheets on the bed and air mattress. All of P.J.’s supplies—his pack-and-play, his clothes, his diapers and wipes—are temporarily in the master bedroom, and for the first time in a month, the guest room looks, well, normal. Aside from a single box of diapers tucked into the halfway-open closet, there’s no indication that P.J. lives with them or that they’ve spent countless hours soothing him back to sleep on rough nights.

Except instead of feeling like a return to the status quo, the change leaves Phil feeling empty. Hollow, as though someone’s scooped out a part of his heart with a melon baller and expected him to survive that way.

He swallows around the sensation and walks out of the room.

Just as he suspects, he finds Jenny in his own bedroom a few seconds later, her whole body tilted over the pack-and-play and a tiny smile playing across her face. Phil’s studied that smile on Clint’s face often enough to know exactly what his sister’s seeing: a peaceful, sleep-mussed P.J., sprawled out on his back with his t-shirt up around his armpits and his tiny fingers twitching as he dreams. 

He props his shoulder against the doorframe and, when Jenny still refuses to glance up from the baby, clears his throat. She jumps a little, and he tries not to smirk at the guilt that immediately flashes across her face. “Come on, you knew I was going to find the baby.”

He crosses his arms. “Didn’t think you’d snoop in our bedroom to do it.”

She snorts and rolls her eyes. “Like there’s anything in this bedroom I haven’t already seen,” she retorts quietly, and his ears warm against his will. She grins at that, pure older-sister triumph, and glances back down to the baby. “He looks like Clint.”

Phil swallows. “I know.”

“No, I mean he _really_ —”

“Trust me, Jenny: I know.”

He hears the finality in his tone long before his sister jerks her head up to stare at him, and when she narrows her eyes, he shakes his head weakly. The silence that stretches between them feels like the calm before the storm, and the tension only snaps when she crosses the space between them, tugs him away from the wall, and wraps him in a hug.

She smells like confectioners’ sugar—a risk of the trade, she always jokes—and he fights against the urge to curl his hands in her t-shirt. They’re adults now, after all.

“You miss me?” she teases, her grin hidden against his shoulder.

“Only because Sam and Amy couldn’t make it,” he retorts, and kisses her on the cheek when she wrinkles her nose.

Clint and the boys burst back into the house only a few minutes later, their footsteps very nearly drowning out their voices, and Clint’s digging his swim trunks out of the closet when Phil realizes that the three of them are headed out to the nearby public pool. “Figured you and Jen might want some sister time,” Clint explains as he drops his pants, and Phil works very hard not to study the curve of his ass in his boxers. “Plus, I’m pretty sure she needs a break from the boys.”

He strips off his t-shirt, and Phil purses his lips as his eyes travel down the plane of Clint’s back. “And dinner?”

“I’ll pick up a couple pizzas on the way home.” Clint hooks his thumbs in the elastic of his boxers, clearly distracted—but then, all at once, he finds Phil’s eyes. Or rather, he discovers just how much Phil’s eyes keep _wandering_ , greedy as a teenager on prom night. He smirks and strokes a thumb along his hipbone. “Like what you see, boss?”

Phil rolls his eyes. “Don’t ruin the car with your wet trunks,” he instructs, and Clint cackles loudly enough that he, predictably, wakes P.J. 

By the time they load Clint and the boys up with towels, sunscreen, and a suspiciously dusty kickboard from the back of the garage (origin unknown), P.J.’s fully awake and pressing his face to the front screen as he waves goodbye to his uncle. Clint stops at the end of the driveway to honk, and P.J. pounds the screen so hard that Phil worries he might fall through it.

Jenny, however, laughs. “Oh, you’re in for _trouble_ ,” she decides, and ignores Phil’s immediate frown.

P.J. remains glued to the front door until he’s certain that Clint’s gone, and even then, he fusses when Phil carries him into the baby-approved living room. Phil suspects that he’s missing Clint until Phil notices the way he tips his face into Phil’s shoulder to avoid Jenny’s expectant smile. Phil bounces him a little, trying to coax him out of his shell, but he grumbles and, as usual, hides.

Jenny waves a hand. “He’ll snap out of it,” she says, but Phil hears the slightest hint of disappointment in her voice. “I think half of Sam’s kids hid from me as babies, too.”

“Only because Sam socialized them with farm animals before actual humans,” Phil jokes, and he feels a little bolstered when Jenny smiles.

He situates P.J. on a sunny spot of floor with his usual pile of toys and some goldfish crackers before moving to the couch, and he waves encouragingly when his nephew stares at him. For a few seconds, the baby chews on his fist thoughtfully, clearly considering a tantrum; then, the rattling plastic firetruck with the six different sounds catches his attention, and he decides to ignore the adults, instead.

“Oh, he’s a Coulson boy,” Jenny decides, smirking.

Phil snorts. “Just wait until Clint’s back with dinner, then you’ll see how he’s really _all_ Barton.” She chuckles a little at that, her elbows resting on her legs as she studies the baby, and Phil rolls his lips together. “Clint says he’s as cautious as I am,” he admits after a few seconds, “but I think that’s more a product of his upbringing than anything else.”

She flicks him a sideways glance. “How rough’s he had it?”

He shrugs. “Rough enough.”

“Phil—”

“I actually don’t know all of it,” he interrupts, raising a hand. “And the pieces I do, well, they’re mostly second-hand reports from Clint or the social worker in charge of his case. It’s nothing solid.”

“But?” she asks, eyebrows raised.

He wets his lips. “But,” he echoes, and P.J. blinks up at him when he sighs.

Outlining the whole story of Patrick James Barton, from his slightly secretive birth (because Ally’d decided early on to snub Barney’s only living relative—and, by association, Phil) to his unexpected arrival on their doorstep, feels a little like undergoing a root canal without any novocaine, and Phil pauses twice to grab snacks and, the second time, beer. Jenny listens calmly, her face impassive and her lips rolled into a tight line, but Phil knows from the set of her shoulders how badly she wants to reach through time and space and slug both Barney and Ally. Of his three sisters, Jenny’s the one who will most loudly claim to be a lover while taping up her knuckles for a boxing match, and Phil almost smiles when he catches her gritting her teeth.

He keeps it to himself, though, and trains his eyes on P.J. as he finishes running through the latest developments with Kurt Wagner, the court order, and their official status as foster parents.

“And you don’t know where his actual parents are?” Jenny asks quietly.

He shakes his head. “Not yet,” he admits, and decides against mentioning Skye Carson.

She nods slightly, her face still unreadable to anyone outside the Coulson family, and finally leans back on the couch. She crosses her arms, her attention shifting from P.J. to Phil, and he tries not to wriggle under her sharp scrutiny. After what feels like a lifetime, though, she says, “Great. Now my complaints about Alec’s European adventure are going to sound _really_ petty.”

Phil smirks. “I could use some petty in my life, you know.”

She wrinkles her nose at him. “Say what you will about this whole ordeal, but it has not made you any less of a smartass.” He laughs and shakes his head, but she just places a hand on his knee. “I’m not going to dwell on this, because I’m sure you’ve got enough people doing that already,” she says after a beat, “but for what it’s worth: I’m glad this baby has you and Clint. It sounds like he needs you.”

Phil glances over at where P.J.’s running his firetruck over a small but proud contingent of Fisher-Price Little People. “Me too,” he admits, and smiles when she squeezes his leg.

 

== 

 

“I’m warning you right now, Coulson: if my seven-year-old marries one of your nephews, that’s great, but I’m _not_ attending the family reunions.”

Tony delivers the line with such perfect nonchalance that Steve nearly chokes on a mouthful of beer, but Phil just rolls his eyes and reaches for a plate. Everything on the snack table, from the plates and napkins to the tiny toothpicks stuck in the cheese cubes and cocktail weenies, are red, white, and blue, a perfect match to Tony’s horrifying American flag swim trunks. Worse, there are patriotic-colored fairy lights strung along the deck, tiny plastic flags popping out of every flowerbed, star-covered inner tubes in the pool, and a massive flag piñata waiting for the after-dinner festivities.

Phil rubs his eyes to ensure he’s not hallucinating, and Tony pokes him with a bright red fork. “I’m serious,” he insists, gesturing limply to where Amy and Earl are engaged in an incredibly cutthroat cannonball contest. “I’m all for love connections, but participating in the wholesome farmyard fun with my eventual grandkids is out.”

“You realize they’re just swimming, right?” Steve asks, eyebrows raised. 

“Swimming is the gateway drug to becoming a Coulson-in-law,” Tony replies haughtily, and Phil snorts even as he shakes his head.

Another enormous splash echoes through the yard, and the contest’s three judges (Darcy, Natasha, and Dot’s beloved Uncle Augie) clap politely before bending their heads in deliberation. Amy spits a stream of water at Earl as she doggie paddles toward her unofficial jumping coach, Dot, and Phil resists his urge to grin. 

After all, grinning only ever encourages Tony, and no one needs that.

“You know, I almost liked him better before he became a parent,” Steve murmurs, his voice just loud enough for Phil to hear.

Phil laughs hard enough that he nearly dumps his cocktail weenies into the grass.

Tony scowls and dismisses them with a quick wave of his hand, and Steve waits until he’s returned to the grill to offer Phil a conspiring smirk. “I practically have a doctorate in driving him away, at this point,” he confides. “You ever need a quick lesson . . . ”

“Talk about truth, justice, and the American way?” Phil asks.

“And complain about his potty mouth,” Steve replies. “Works every time.”

Phil grins. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he promises, and Steve claps him on the shoulder before returning to his place on the cannonball advisory board.

Despite the grueling summer heat and the frankly terrifying tower of fireworks boxes stacked along the fence (only about half of them legal), this year’s Fourth of July barbecue is the largest in its seven-year history. In addition to Phil’s sister and Bucky’s brother, all four of the recently graduated interns are in attendance, and both Darcy and Grant brought their significant others. Miles and his friend Ganke ride out the cannonballs on patriotic pool noodles, a handful of Teddy’s friends congregate on a blanket in the shadiest part of the yard, and Nick Fury himself raises his beer in greeting when he catches Phil scanning the area.

Phil smiles and nods, and he swears his boss winks at him as he returns to an intense conversation with Maria and an assortment of interns. 

The rest of their officemates congregate in their normal groups: Jane, Peggy, and Pepper sit together at a picnic table and pass Astrid between them; Bucky and Jasper roll their eyes as Tony attempts to reclaim the grill from their “traitorous and ultimately useless hands;” Bruce and Thor debate some aspect of juvenile justice with Grant’s boyfriend Leo; Steve guides Augie Barnes’s boyfriend (since he’s Andrew today) around the yard, introducing him to all the friendly faces. Peter Parker snaps pictures of the cannonball contest and other swimmers—or, more likely, of Darcy’s skimpy swimsuit—and Clint—

Phil frowns as he realizes that Clint’s abandoned his place among the cannonball observers, leaving Jenny and Ernie alone in their lawn chairs. What’s worse, P.J.’s no longer balanced precariously on Jenny’s lap, squealing at every splash and squabble.

Phil’s not necessarily proud of the dull flutter of panic deep in his belly, but he can’t really ignore it, either.

He swivels away from the snack table to survey the path into the house—and relaxes so visibly and immediately that Melinda May rolls her eyes at him.

“Your husband needed to use the facilities,” she says, hiking P.J. up on her hip as she steps down off the deck. “Urgently, I think, since he shoved a baby at me and ran.”

Phil snorts. “Jasper’s extra-spicy salsa has that effect on a lot of people.” She crinkles her nose slightly, and he resists the urge to laugh. “I can take him off your hands, if you want.”

“And deprive me of the only baby in my life? I don’t think so.” Phil nearly rolls his eyes at that, but then, P.J. reaches for a handful of Melinda’s hair. “No,” she says, one finger raised, and he freezes with his palm outstretched. They stare at one another for a moment before he flops back against her shoulder and grins. “That’s a good baby. We can be friends, now.”

Phil cocks an eyebrow. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you have a soft side,” he observes.

“My children wouldn’t have survived the terrible twos if I didn’t,” she retorts, and he grins as she walks away, baby in tow.

P.J. and his new best friend (aside, of course, from Tony) end up joining Astrid and her entourage of adults at the picnic table, and Phil smiles as the two tiny children stare one another down. Eventually, Astrid shoves a torn piece of hot dog bun at P.J.—whether as a peace offering or a sign of friendship, Phil’s not sure—and P.J. grins in way that’s entirely Clint. His easy glee hurts Phil’s heart, somehow, and he tears himself away from the snack table before the emotions overwhelm him.

He chats with the Grill Oversight Committee (complete with laminated badges courtesy of one Jasper Sitwell) and taste-tests Bucky’s new wing sauce for a few minutes, and by time he guest judges the next round of cannonballs (Dot versus Ganke), Clint’s reemerged from the house. He slings arms around Phil’s shoulders from behind, and when Phil tips up to smile fondly at him, he misses Ganke’s performance.

“He votes ten on his husband’s grin and nothing on your cannonball,” Natasha explains seriously.

Ganke groans, and Clint nuzzles his face against the back of Phil’s head before wandering off to join another group. 

Phil’s on his second beer and ready to relieve Melinda of P.J. (who is now, apparently, asleep and drooling on her t-shirt) when someone wolf-whistles at him. He jerks his head around just in time to catch Kate Bishop waving at him from the blanket in the back of the yard.

She’s wearing cut-off jean shorts with a loose purple button-up shirt over a white camisole, and her hair is twisted up in a messy bun. More importantly, Phil’s ninety-two percent sure that he’d missed her arrival to the party.

He wonders for a moment whether she climbs Tony and Bruce’s fence as often as she climbs theirs.

He stands in the middle of the grass for a moment, barefoot and admittedly a little off-balance, and Kate scowls at him as she raises her fingers for a second whistle. “I’m coming,” he says, holding up his hand. “No need to deafen anyone.”

“Says you,” Kate replies, and flops back onto her elbows.

Of the four other teens on the blanket, Phil only really knows Teddy, but he guesses that the lanky, dark-haired boy with his head on Teddy’s shoulder is Billy and that the girl in the unlaced boots and tattered jean jacket is the legendary America Chavez. 

And when the last boy steals Kate’s soda and swigs from it without receiving anything more than a tight glance, Phil recognizes him as the _other_ leg of Kate’s complicated love polygon, Eli.

Kate raises her eyebrows, a silent challenge, and Phil quickly shakes his head. She grins in response, satisfied as the cat who caught the canary, and plucks her soda out of Eli’s grip. “So,” she says conversationally, “I think you need to tell my friends about your baby.”

For some reason, her nonchalant delivery socks him right in the middle of his stomach. “I don’t really—”

“Wait,” Teddy interrupts, his gaze flicking over to Kate. “They actually had a baby?”

America snorts. “Pretty sure he and Mister Arms over there are missing some key baby-making components.” Billy stops reaching for their shared bowl of tortilla chips to wrinkle his nose at her, and she shrugs. “Not my fault you skipped out on freshman health class, _chico_.”

“Maybe I’m just tired of you always taking it straight to sex,” Billy defends.

“Says one of the guys who gets more than all of us combined,” America retorts smoothly, and she smirks when Teddy and Billy both flare the same exact shade of red.

Phil forces an awkward smile and prepares to bow out of the uncomfortable conversation, but Kate stops him by huffing and rolling her eyes. “Please don’t gross out one of the few adults in my life who don’t suck,” she half-groans, and there’s just enough annoyance in her voice to wipe the smirk off America’s face. She glances up at Phil. “They don’t believe that you and Barton are fostering your nephew,” she explains. “I figured you’d be the best person to set them straight.”

“We could ask Clint,” Billy points out.

“You mean we could ask Clint’s arms, right?” Eli asks, and Billy kicks his leg from across the blanket.

“They are nice arms,” Phil agrees seriously, and America nearly chokes on her soda. He considers the five of them, all surprisingly attentive for teenagers at a neighborhood barbecue, and drags a lawn chair away from the nearby fire pit. “And for what it’s worth, yes, we’re fostering our nephew. His name’s P.J., and he’s about ten months old.”

He glances over to the picnic table, expecting to once again discover Melinda cradling a sleepy baby, but his heart stops at the actual view. Because instead of Melinda, it’s Clint who’s holding onto their conked-out nephew, his heavy baby limbs drooping against Clint’s chest as Clint rocks him idly. Of course, Clint barely notices—he’s too busy smiling and laughing with Thor and Bruce to care about twenty pounds of dead weight—but Phil loses the ability to breathe.

When Clint ducks his head to kiss P.J.’s messy hair, the ability to think clearly flies out the window, too.

Phil only realizes that all five teens are watching the exact same scene when America suddenly releases a long, low whistle. “Shit, even I feel some weird stirrings at _that_ display.”

Eli grins. “And that’s ten dollars in my pocket,” he informs Teddy, who grumbles as he digs into his shorts for his wallet. 

Billy rolls his eyes, proof that he’s every bit the supportive boyfriend Kate’s described, but he also almost knocks over his soda as he glances back at Clint and P.J. He purses his lips momentarily before asking, “What’s it like?” 

The rest of his friends glance at him, their expressions all frozen in various stages of barely contained panic, and he sighs as he leans back on his palms. “I don’t remember my brothers being little, and you’re all mostly only children. I just want to know what it’s like.”

America quirks an eyebrow. “Because you two are already on the market for two babies and a white picket fence?”.

Teddy immediately raises his hands. “My siblings and _these_ fences are all we can handle.”

Kate snorts and shakes her head. “Wuss,” she mutters, and wriggles away before Teddy’s able to pinch her.

Billy crinkles his nose again, but when his attention drifts back to Clint and the baby, he stays suspiciously quiet. Phil tries for a moment to remember life at that age, in the days before the limitless future became steady reality. He thinks he probably imagined a life full of children and chaos, back then—after all, with three older sisters, he’d known nothing else—but he’s not sure.

He’d certainly never imagined Clint’s crooked smile, or the way his whole heart swells every time he wakes up to another morning with his husband. 

“He’s shy,” he hears himself say, his voice distant even to his own ears. “He loves animals, hates baths, and now that he’s mastered crawling, he follows us around the house like he’s afraid we might evaporate when we round a corner.” He smears the condensation on his beer bottle with his thumb. “I’m not sure we’re cut out for long-term child care, but we’re happy to have him while we can.”

Eli narrows his eyes slightly. “Even with the diapers?”

Phil grins. “Well, no. Not that part.”

The sky’s already darkening when P.J. jerks awake from his impromptu nap, and he cries and fusses in Clint’s grip until Phil abandons his conversation with Peggy and sweeps him out of his uncle’s arms. He clings to Phil’s t-shirt and hiccups for a few minutes before he remembers the dogs, and from that point on, dusk becomes a master class in greyhound chasing. Butterfingers, predictably, darts away every time P.J. squeals, but Dummy prances around Phil’s feet and licks P.J.’s face until the baby’s wheezing with laughter.

Clint, unsurprisingly, sends no fewer than eight pictures to the Coulson family text stream.

They walk up the block to an empty lot for the actual firework show, a pyrotechnic display so complicated that Tony, Miles, Ganke, Steve, _and_ Darcy had actually started work on it the second they all finished dinner, and Clint crowds up behind Phil the second he stakes out his place in the crowd. His hands feel warm and sure on Phil’s hips, his mouth distractingly wet on the back of Phil’s neck, and Phil swears he almost melts into him. 

But instead of his ordinary tactics—a litany of dirty promises, the tantalizing press of his hips against Phil’s ass—Clint winds up with his chin on Phil’s shoulder and his stubble tickling Phil’s ear. 

Tony’s handing out sparklers while Dot belts “America the Beautiful” at the top of her lungs when Clint kisses the side of his neck. “I like it when you’re his favorite,” he decides quietly.

Phil tips his head to frown at him. “Who, Tony?”

Clint snorts and rolls his eyes. “Yeah, Tony,” he retorts, and tickles P.J.’s belly until he crows.

P.J. flinches at the first firework and hides his face from the second, but by time they’ve transitioned to Beth Fury’s off-key rendition of “You’re a Grand Old Flag,” he’s leaning back in Phil’s arms, his face tipped to the sky.

For a moment, Phil’s not sure which Barton boy he loves more, the tiny one with the wide eyes and open mouth or the grinning one behind him who squeezes his hip every time another firework explodes.

In the end, though, Phil decides to do what he’s spent the last month doing and just love them both.

 

==

 

“I, uh, might have done a thing.”

Rain pelts against Phil’s office window pane, a rhythmic snare beat to an already miserable Tuesday morning, and he jerks his head up hard enough that he feels his teeth rattle. Skye Carson steps back involuntarily, her hands raised, and almost collides with an overflowing file cart. The intern behind her swears, she swivels around to apologize, and Phil rubs the creases out of his forehead.

“Come in,” he instructs, “and tell me about your ‘thing.’”

“On second thought, maybe I should just take my chances with that cart.”

She delivers her reply like a joke, complete with a crooked smile, but Phil recognizes the wariness that creeps around the edges of her expression. He spots that same wariness—or maybe, he thinks to himself, the better word is “caution”—every time he walks into a courtroom. Usually, he prides himself on his tiny ability to strike fear into the hearts of criminal defendants and their attorneys, but today—

Today, his desk is overrun with half-finished response motions and open case reporters, his case management spreadsheet is in shambles, and Westlaw keeps refusing his password.

He glances forlornly at his half-finished packet of frosted doughnuts and sighs. “I’m sorry,” he says, and gestures to the chair in front of his desk. “Please, come in.”

“You might regret this invitation in another five seconds,” Skye replies—but she steps into his office anyway.

And immediately shuts the door behind her. 

Phil raises his eyebrows, a silent prompt, but Skye ignores him as she walks over and flops into one of his guest chairs. She slouches, her feet planted on the front of his desk and her knees almost up to her chin. When she rakes teeth over her lower lip, Phil sets down his pen and removes his reading glasses.

Because Skye, the unflappable queen of the county’s computer network, is nervous.

He draws in a breath, but she beats him to the punch. “Burner phones like the one your brother-in-law used to call you are, like, notoriously obnoxious to trace,” she explains as she brushes her long hair out of her face. “If you keep them on, no big deal, but a lot of people _don’t_. After all, nine-tenths of why people with normal contract phones keep them on all day is because their texts and calls are free, but if you’re paying out the ass for every minute, you—”

“Skye,” Phil says, and she snaps her mouth shut. “Tell me what you did.”

She puffs out her cheeks before exhaling hard. “You ever see _Criminal Minds_?”

He frowns slightly. “I don’t—”

“Like three times a season, there’s a tense moment where they need to find someone from cell tower triangulation,” she continues, her gaze dropping to her hands. “Their computer expert—who’s like me, but with a way weirder fashion sense—uses an active call to figure out where the phone’s located. Easiest way to connect the dots.”

Phil swallows almost involuntarily. “An active call,” he repeats.

“Right.” She nods, mostly to herself, and glances up at him. “Which is why I waited until I knew somebody’d switched the phone back on and called it.”

Immediately, the bottom drops out of Phil’s stomach. His whole body lurches and then freezes, dangling like when a roller coaster cart shudders to a stop at the apex of that first big hill. Skye, however, barely misses a beat. “Every other time I’ve called somebody like this, it’s gone straight to voicemail. It never even occurred to me that—”

“What’d you say?”

His voice foreign even to his own ears, and Skye digs her fingers through her hair again. She ducks her head, hiding her eyes, and Phil wets his lips. “Skye,” he repeats, and she flinches like she expects him to hit her. “I need to know—”

“I asked for Barney.” When he groans quietly, she surges forward, perching on the very edge of the chair. “I panicked!” she says frantically, her bracelets jangling and flashing as she throws up her hands. “But either you or May mentioned how his girlfriend’s missing, too, so I figured I could use that. Play up the kind of ditzy, flirty girl your brother-in-law might want to talk to and move on from there.”

Phil sighs. Suddenly, the headache that had first threatened to strike along with the rain springs to life behind his temples. He massages one, his eyes wandering from Skye to his computer monitor—and then, to the handful of pictures that are pinned up next to it. Him and Clint at their first Urban Ascent gala, during their first Christmas, lying in their backyard (that one courtesy of Kate Bishop); their wedding picture with his whole extended family; and now, the most recent one, Clint with P.J. during their little office party. He studies that picture for a long time, memorizing the laugh lines around Clint’s eyes and P.J.’s big smile, and he feels—

He swallows around his emotions and glances back to Skye. “And?” he asks.

Skye rolls her lips together. “And I don’t actually know who I talked to,” she admits, her hands pressed between her thighs. “The guy on the other end of the line asked for my name, and when I said Candy—”

Against his better judgment, Phil almost smiles. “Candy?”

“Like I said, I panicked!” He chuckles, and for the first time, her mouth kicks up into a tiny grin. “Turns out, Barney has no interest in talking to any of—and I’m quoting, here—‘Ally’s strung-out friends from the club.’” She pauses. “At least, not without a certain kind of picture, but since you’re married to a guy—”

“Please, leave it to my imagination.” She grins again, brighter this time, and Phil’s shoulders slump. He scrubs a hand across his face for a moment. “Did you find a location?” he finally asks, and she blinks at him. “You said you called because it’s easier to pinpoint a location. Did it work?”

“Sort of. We weren’t on the phone for as long as I would’ve liked—you can thank inappropriate picture guy for that—but it pinged upstate. Like, way-north Warren County upstate.” She shrugs. “Other than that—”

“We’re still back at square one.” She nods, and Phil releases a long, slow breath. “Well, I guess that’s better than nothing.”

The tension in her shoulders uncoils enough that she finally leans back in her chair. “I can keep monitoring him, if you want,” she offers. “Check up on the phone, see if I can connect the pieces together better than ‘the guy who answered it is in Warren County and also a total creep.’”

He raises his eyebrows. “Are you going to call him again?” 

“Uh, not for all the tea in the entire world,” she retorts, and Phil finally smiles. 

She thanks him briefly before springing up out of her seat, and he forces himself to hold onto his smile as he reaches for his pen. He knows that people in Barney’s situation—people with limited means and a lot on their minds—pass around pay-as-you-go phones, sometimes, trading them for information or, barring that, a place to crash for the night. Hell, he’d helped Barney stock up on minutes before the wedding, just to ensure he and Ally could keep in touch. For all he knows, Barney’s usual phone is with one friend, the burner is now with another, and Barney is still missing in action.

“For what it’s worth,” Skye says suddenly, and Phil glances up to discover her lingering in the doorway, “I spent some time on Google maps, trying to figure out where the phone might’ve ended up.”

Phil’s gut clenches. “And?”

“And the only interesting thing in that corner of the county is their jail,” she replies, and then leaves Phil alone with the rain. 

 

==

 

“And then, here’s the worst part: the green stuff was mashed-up peas!”

Ernie spreads P.J.’s arms wide above his head—victory arm formation, according to Wade Wilson—and P.J. bursts out in a grin so bright, Phil thinks his heart might explode. He kicks his legs and wiggles, his head tipping back to study Ernie’s face, but Earl regains his attention by tweaking one of his toes. 

“We’re not done yet, Mister Barton,” he says seriously, the remote control held to his mouth like a microphone. “You promised details about this house of horrors.”

Ernie heaves a heavy sigh and drops P.J.’s arms back into his lap. “I don’t know if I should tell you the diaper stories,” he says, his high-pitched P.J. voice tinged with regret. “It might be too gross for television.” 

“It’s the only way we can get to the truth, Mister Barton,” Earl presses. “That’s why we’re here.”

He points his pretend microphone at the baby, and P.J. squints at it.

The twins both burst out laughing when he grips it with two hands and, out of nowhere, sticks it in his mouth.

Phil smiles, his heart and belly both warming from the sight of his three nephews playing together, and he forces himself away from the doorjamb and back into the kitchen. Jenny’s rinsing the last few dishes from dinner while Clint flicks through a bunch of photographs on an iPad. When he catches Phil watching, he holds up the tablet. “Can you believe this?” he demands, gesturing to a three-tiered wedding cake decorated with a fondant waterfall. “Your sister made this in a _day_.”

“And a half,” Jenny chides. He rolls his eyes, and she jabs him lightly with a wooden spoon. “I don’t know why you’re shocked. I made your wedding cake.”

“Our wedding cake was easy,” Clint protests.

“Only because I rejected your plans for, what, six tiers, each with a different filling?” Clint wrinkles his nose until Phil walks over and kisses him on the corner of the mouth. “Thanks for helping Jenny, by the way.”

Clint raises his hands. “I’ll have you know she bossed me right out of helping.”

“Meaning he stole my iPad and started digging through my photos,” Jenny retorts, but she grins and winks when Clint waves her off.

Another cascade of laughter echoes in from the living room as the ever-important interview between P.J. and Earl devolves into poop jokes, and Phil slips his fingers under the back of Clint’s t-shirt as he listens to the giggling. Tomorrow morning, Jenny will pack up the van for the return trip up to Chicago, but tonight, they’re all together.

Phil, his sister, two of his nephews, his husband, and his—

P.J., he reminds himself seconds before his brain wanders down a forbidden path. He’s together with his family and P.J.

“You okay?” Clint asks suddenly, and Phil blinks out of his own thoughts to find his husband staring at him. He forces a smile, but Clint’s brow furrows. “You look like you just saw a ghost or something.”

Phil shakes his head. “Just indigestion from Jenny’s cooking,” he fibs—and squeaks when Jenny snaps a dish towel at him.

Clint laughs, and Phil drinks in that laughter for a moment before he heads for the fridge. There’s a half-bottle of wine left from last night’s dinner, perfect for a long goodbye with his sister. He imagines the three of them sitting around the table, talking long into the night, and smiles to himself.

At least until he hears master interviewer Earl Nicholas ask, “And now, the most important question: what do you think about your new dads?”

Phil opens his mouth, a split-second from responding, but unsurprisingly, his ten-year-old nephew chimes in first. “Oh, they’re _okay_ ,” Ernie responds, his P.J.-voice light and flippant. “My bedtime’s super early, but they have a cat. Plus, my one daddy’s sister brought her boys over, and they’re awesome.”

“Shit,” Jenny mutters. She throws down the dish towel, her expression drawn and desperately embarrassed as she glances between them. Over on the other side of the kitchen, Clint’s just as frozen as Phil, his hands pressed against the countertop and his jaw flexing. Jenny shakes her head. “Listen, I’ll go talk to them. Explain the situation again, because as much as I thought they got it—”

“I’ll take care of it,” Clint interrupts stiffly. Jenny blinks at him, her lips rolling together, and he holds up his hands. “I’m just gonna distract them. Change the game. Nothing, I don’t know, parental.”

The last word slugs Phil in the pit of his stomach, a physical blow, but his sister nods unevenly. “I’m sorry, Clint.”

He forces a smile. “This whole thing’s brand new to them, and they’re ten,” he replies, shrugging. “They deserve a little leeway.”

Jenny nods again, even more uncertainly than the first time, and Phil swallows thickly as he watches Clint retreat into the living room. The boys’ voices dry up immediately, but only for a couple seconds. Because then, the television flares to life, and the twins cheer in delirious unison as Clint switches the channel to—

Phil nearly laughs when he realizes it’s _Dog Cops_. In their household, it’s almost always _Dog Cops_.

He listens to the sound of boys jockeying for prime position on the couch while the theme music plays, and it’s only when he hears P.J. crow at the sight of a dog on the screen that he finally exhales. His fingers release their death grip on the fridge handle, his shoulders loosen, and—

“You’re in love.”

He nearly leaps out of his skin at the sound of Jenny’s voice, but as always, she just narrows her eyes. She’s still standing at the sink, her hip resting lightly against the countertop, but all of her razor-sharp Coulson attention is focused on his face. On every part of his posture, Phil realizes, from the line of his shoulders to the way his jaw works when he swallows.

Jenny, he reminds himself, is the mother of five children, ranging in age from young adults to rambunctious ten-year-old twins. She knows how to spot a lie at a hundred paces.

Which is why he snorts and rolls his eyes. “Did the wedding give it away?” 

She raises her eyebrows. “Do you want a chance to be honest, or are we jumping straight to the hard way?” she counters. “Because if you want to do it the hard way—”

“I don’t want to do this conversation _any_ way, Jen,” Phil replies, and he completely forgets about the wine to walk right out the back door.

The air’s still oppressive and damp after yesterday’s rain, a physical presence that bears down on him the second his bare feet hit the back patio, and he squints into the last remnants of the red-orange summer sun. The dying fingers of light stain the sky purple and gold, a dramatic contrast to the handful of thick, dark clouds clotting around the horizon, and Phil studies them until his eyes burn. 

Staring out into those final minutes of daylight, he can pretend that his stomach’s not swimming and his heart’s not in his throat.

More than that, he can pretend that his sister’s not lingering behind him, her shadow stretching across the paving stones and the yard beyond.

“I ever tell you that Alec didn’t want more kids?” she asks after a few seconds, and Phil frowns as he glances over his shoulder. She shrugs, her hands in her back pockets, and steps up to beside him. “He had three kids already, and after all the time he and Liv spent trying to have any of those three . . . He was just sort of _done_. We almost broke up over it.”

Phil huffs out a long breath. “Since you had the twins, it obviously worked out for you.”

“Because I told him how much it mattered to me.” The honesty in her voice catches him off guard, and he can’t help glancing over at her, or finding her gaze in the approaching dark. “I thought my ship had sailed, too,” she says, her eyes never leaving his. “You meet the love of your life at thirty-four, and you convince yourself there’s no way you’ll ever settle down the old-fashioned way. Pop out boys who drive you literally crazy.” Phil snorts lightly. “And then, you find out you’re wrong.”

“Thirty-five isn’t the same as forty-two,” he points out, and ignores her immediate eye-roll. “And even if the perfect solution fell into our laps tomorrow—even if we lucked out the way Bruce and Tony did, found the perfect kid and headed straight down the path of least resistance to keeping him—that doesn’t mean Clint’d want it.” The words stick enough that Jenny raises her eyebrows, and he shakes his head as he looks back out across the yard. “We both came into this relationship assuming there wouldn’t be children. It’d be unfair to change the rules on him now.”

“Unless he wants the same thing you do.” Phil flicks his gaze back toward his sister, just one half-second glance, and she crosses her arms. “Think about it, Phil. Think about everything you know about that man in there—about his relationship with my kids, with our nieces and nephews, with that baby—and tell me he’s not feeling the same things you are.”

Phil opens his mouth, instantly ready to prove his sister wrong—but then, he actually stops to think about it. To think of Clint channel surfing on a lazy Sunday afternoon while their nephew naps on his chest, or flopping down on the floor to play with blocks and rattling toy cars. He thinks of shower time, Clint singing under the spray while P.J. laughs, and of a damp baby swaddled in an oversized towel as Uncle Clint dances him off to bed. He thinks of Clint wiping powdered sugar from P.J.’s nose after sharing a bite of his doughnut hole, of quality time on the baby swings at the park, and of the two of them sitting out on the front stoop to greet Phil after his run. 

And more than anything else, he remembers Clint late at night, his voice a low, soothing murmur on the wrong end of the baby monitor as he’d comforted their nephew back to sleep.

He thinks of Clint—not the attorney, but the caregiver, the husband, the _father_ —and all the words dry up in his throat. 

He rolls his lips together before he says, “We’ve never really talked about it.”

“And if I’d never talked to Alec, I wouldn’t have the boys,” Jenny replies, and knocks their shoulders together.

 

==

 

“What are we going to do with you?” Phil asks P.J. late that night, and P.J. hiccups as he hides his face against Phil’s neck.

Phil’s still not sure what woke the baby, let alone what scared him enough to leave him screaming at the top of his lungs, but now, he whimpers helplessly and clings to Phil’s t-shirt. With his tiny, tear-streaked face and his shuddery breaths, he reminds Phil of the child Barney’d brought over a full month ago, a shadow of the energetic little boy they’re used to. 

Just thinking about the shy baby from a month ago causes Phil’s heart to clench in his chest.

He bounces P.J. slightly and walks him across the room.

The house reminds Phil of _’Twas the Night Before Christmas_ —not a creature stirs, not even the cat—and he smiles a little to himself. The twins had fallen asleep in front of the television only to fight their mother’s attempts to herd them off into bed, and Jenny’d conked out mere moments later. Clint, the frequent night owl, had crowded Phil into the corner of their bedroom and kissed him breathless for a few minutes before declaring himself “too tired for sex” and flopping down onto the bed. Phil’d rolled his eyes, tucked him in, and trudged down to the office to finish a motion.

He’d just finished saving it to their work server when P.J.’d started howling.

But now, instead of howling, he watches Phil with wide, halfway distrustful eyes, his lower lip quivering with each uncertain breath. Phil smiles at him, drying his cheeks with the pad of his thumb, but he stops when he realizes how much the baby reminds him of Clint. Not the Clint who’s sleeping down the hallway, dead to the world, but the Clint of two years ago: helpless, hopeful, and breathtaking.

And then, Phil remembers his conversation with Jenny, and a lump rises in the back of his throat.

“I don’t know what to do with you,” he tells P.J. as he walks him back across the living room. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel, I don’t—”

The words shudder unexpectedly, and Phil tips his head down, his lips close to P.J.’s messy hair. He smells like baby shampoo and sunshine, like the apricot baby food from dinner and the sanitizer in his baby wipes, and Phil closes his eyes. He loses himself in those scents, and in the dependable weight of a ten-month-old against his chest.

And the feel of P.J.’s damp breath against his neck when he flops forward, cuddles in close, and _sighs_.

Phil swallows hard and tries, desperately, to keep his breathing even.

“I wish I knew how to do this,” he whispers, and holds his nephew a little closer.

 

==

 

“Time to pop a wheelie!” Clint declares, and P.J. squeals as his uncle tilts the stroller back on two wheels.

Phil rolls his eyes, a practiced reaction that absolutely ignores Clint’s huge grin and P.J.’s elated kicking and clapping, but not even the world’s most convincing sigh can hide his smile. Because today, wandering down the sidewalk on a beautiful Saturday with his husband and their adorable nephew, Phil feels—

Well, there’s no way around it.

For once, Phil feels fantastic.

They’ve spent most of their morning so far out in the warm summer sun, eating breakfast out on the back patio before heading down to the park for a lazy hour of swinging and waving at dogs. Most the dog owners had grinned before waving back, delighting P.J. as he flailed in his plastic baby swing. Occasionally, he’d tipped his head back to check on Clint and Phil—to ensure they still existed, or maybe just to evaluate their respective pushing prowess—but most the time, he’d studied the world around him: trees, birds, joggers, and the wind.

Once, he’d stuck his hand out and grunted urgently at another couple strolling down the sidewalk. Phil’d frowned for a moment until he’d recognized that P.J.’s attention had fallen on the people walking just behind the couple: two boys, a little younger than Ernie and Earl, each armed with a Nerf sword. They’d jabbed and parried, cackling at one another before breaking away from their parents to charge up the playground equipment.

P.J.’d wriggled and babbled, his noises growing more and more irritated until Clint’d mussed up his hair. “Not your cousins, kiddo,” he’d soothed, and pushed the swing a little higher.

Phil’d worked hard to ignore his word choice.

Near the end of their playground time, when P.J.’s delight in the outside world had finally started to wane, Clint’d snuck up behind Phil and wrapped arms around his waist. “I love you, you know that?” he’d asked, and Phil’s breath had stilled in his throat. “I don’t say it enough, don’t make a big enough deal about it, but you— I lucked out with you, Phil.”

He’d kissed the back of Phil’s neck then, his lips warm and rough against Phil’s skin, and Phil’d swallowed thickly. “You keep talking like that, and P.J. will hear you,” he’d warned.

Clint’d chuckled. “You say that like it’s a bad thing,” he’d replied, and kissed Phil again.

Phil’s ears warm as he thinks about those tiny kisses—never mind the way Clint’d eventually slid hands under his t-shirt just to stroke his bare skin—and Clint immediately smirks at him. “I’m thinking about Steve without a shirt on,” Phil defends. “You’re the last thing on my mind.”

An enormous grin blooms across Clint’s face. “You hear that, P.J.? Your Uncle Phil’s a dirty rotten liar, and he’s . . . ”

Phil snorts, ready for what promises to be a truly ridiculous retort—the only kind Clint knows, really—until he realizes that his frozen in his tracks. They’re a half block from home, their house barely within view thanks to the glaring summer sun. Phil frowns, his stomach twisting slightly, and cranes his neck to follow Clint’s gaze.

His stomach stops twisting to sink like a stone.

And over on their front stoop, his hair shining almost red-gold in the sunlight, Barney Barton raises one hand in a silent wave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to a busy schedule and the horrible requirements of adulthood, I've had to change around the posting schedule a bit. You can find an updated version and many apologies [here](http://the-wordbutler.tumblr.com/post/130265419607/lets-talk-about-the-posting-schedule-this).


	8. The Truth is Out There

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Barney turns back up like a bad penny. Phil tries hard to offer him the benefit of the doubt, but of course, his heart is torn between that and wishing the worst. At least, until the worst happens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you to my magnificent beta-readers, Jen and saranoh. They were subjected to multiple song references in this chapter, but somehow, they made it through.

“No, fuck _you_ ,” Clint spits, and stalks into the kitchen.

P.J. stops whimpering to howl, his screams almost as violent as the way he thrashes his arms, and Barney glares at his brother’s back. Standing a few feet away, his heart simultaneously in his throat and deep in his gut, Phil draws in a deep breath.

Five seconds, he thinks. If the brothers can survive another five seconds without screaming at one another, maybe—

“How the hell am I supposed to explain myself if you won’t even fucking look at me?” Barney shouts back, and Phil rubs a hand over his face.

Barney adjusts P.J.’s position on his hip, but before he can convince the baby to stop physically shoving at his chest (and, at the same time, breaking Phil’s heart into bite-sized pieces), Clint slams a chair against the kitchen table and strides right back into the living room. Every inch of his body tightens the second he meets his brother’s eyes, the perfectly coiled tension of a viper ready to strike. He flexes his jaw, squares his shoulders, and for one breath-stealing second, Phil half expects him to throw a punch.

Instead, though, he sucks in a breath that leaves his whole body trembling. “I’m not fighting with you when you’re holding your kid,” he says tightly, and turns on his heel.

The back door sounds like a gunshot when it slams.

P.J. screams and reaches out for him, but his tiny fingers only find air. 

Barney mutters something under his breath as he twists away, his fingers sliding through P.J.’s hair, and Phil— For the first time in the ten minutes since they first spotted Barney on their stoop, a little spark of anger flashes through Phil’s veins. He swallows around it, his throat suddenly thick, and loses a moment to studying his brother-in-law. To reading the line of his shoulders and the flex of his neck until he becomes as much a study in barely controlled rage as his brother.

“You want to repeat that?” Phil asks after another beat. Barney whirls around in surprise, and Phil shrugs. “After the last month, if you have something to say about your brother, the least you can do is—” 

“Said he didn’t have to be an asshole,” Barney cuts in. His hand cups the back of P.J.’s head protectively, and Phil wonders for a moment just how much of his newfound anger shows on his face. “‘Cause maybe I deserve some of it, but—”

“Some?” This time, Phil hears the venom in his own voice, but he ignores it to shake his head. “No, Barney, you don’t deserve _some_ of Clint’s anger, you deserve all of it. And while we’re on the subject, if Clint’s being an asshole, it’s only because you started it.”

Barney’s lips part slightly, his brow furrowing, and for a moment, his expression hovers somewhere between livid and confused. Phil wastes one split-second wondering just how frequently Barney’s written him off as a mild-mannered suit before he shakes his head and closes the distance between them.

Barney raises his chin and squares his shoulders. Bracing for a fight, Phil thinks, and all while P.J. balls his fists in Barney’s t-shirt and wails.

“Calm the baby,” Phil instructs, and he raises a hand when Barney’s jaw clenches. “No excuses, no arguments. Calm your son, put him down in the guest room for a nap, and when you’re ready to talk? We’ll be outside.” 

Barney snorts and rolls his eyes. “Just ‘cause you say it doesn’t mean—” 

“Right now, there is a court order forbidding you from even _seeing_ your son without the express permission of Suffolk County Child Services,” Phil breaks in, and he ignores the rage that flashes across Barney’s expression as he snaps his mouth shut. “Put P.J. down for a nap and come talk to us. Otherwise, I will call child services, and they _will_ call the police.”

His brother-in-law stares at him for a few seconds before he growls, “Guess assholes marry assholes.”

“Guess so,” Phil replies, and strides right out of the living room.

He walks through the kitchen without thinking about it, and he barely registers the feel of patio stones and grass under his feet until he’s gripping the chain link fence in their back yard and struggling to breathe. He tries to chase away the anger by closing his eyes, but he only lasts a second or two before P.J.’s tear-streaked face floods his vision. He imagines he can still hear the baby howling, still watch him fight against the father he’s spent more than a month missing, and—

“Fuck,” he mutters, and kicks the fence as hard as possible.

The rattling runs through him like an electric current, and when he pushes away, he discovers Clint standing just three feet behind him, watching.

He’s still in his shorts and t-shirt from the park that morning, and something deep in Phil’s chest shudders the second their eyes meet. Clint rolls his lips together, his throat bobbing uncertainly, and suddenly, everything just aches.

“C’mere,” Phil says, and holds out an arm.

And if Clint hugs him tightly enough that he worries they’ll both suffocate— Well. There are worse ways to go. 

They linger near the back fence line even after they stumble apart: Clint with his arms crossed and his weight resting solidly against the fence; Phil with his hands in his pockets and his eyes tracking the thick summer clouds. The wind rustles in the trees, birds peep and pip as they hop around under the neighbor’s feeder, and the occasional car coasts down their street. 

Phil, on the other hand, has nothing to offer. No reassurances, no soothing words, no battle plans for when Barney walks out the back door. If he appears at all, a traitorous voice in the back of Phil’s mind whispers, and Phil rolls his lips against the swell of hope that follows it.

“Timing sucks,” Clint says suddenly. Phil glances at him over his shoulder, and he shrugs. “His kid, his right, I get it, but his timing sucks.”

Phil raises his eyebrows. “I just always suspected that ‘Bad Timing’ was his middle name.”

Clint snorts. “That and ‘Turns Up Like a Bad Penny,’ yeah,” he says, and treats Phil to the barest hint of a smile.

They wait another ten minutes before Barney steps out onto the patio.

He closes the back door carefully, his face tipped away from Phil and Clint, and for a moment, Phil thinks he reads something like shame in his brother-in-law’s posture. Or maybe regret, instead, the kind that rounds out his shoulders and leaves him staring at his shoes even when he’s finished with the door, his lips pursed and his hands in his pockets. On Clint, emotions like shame and regret flash like neon lights, burning bright and brilliant until your heart hurts for him.

Barney, unsurprisingly, is a thousand times harder to read, and he proves it by rubbing the back of his neck with a hand. 

“Where do you want me to start?” he asks after a beat, his voice just loud enough to carry across the yard. Clint snorts as he pushes away from the fence, and Barney’s jaw tightens. “I know you’re pissed,” he says. “Maybe you’ve got a right to be.”

“Maybe?” Clint snaps. He rolls his eyes at Phil’s sharp look. “There’s no maybe in this.”

Barney chews on his lip for a split second. “Definitely,” he amends. “You’ve definitely got a right to be pissed. I deserve that. But with all the shit from the last month, I just couldn’t—”

“Yeah? What shit?” Phil twists to throw Clint another warning glance—a reminder to keep Barney talking and _off_ the defensive—but Clint ignores him to stalk across the grass. “You disappeared for a fucking month, Barney. Left your kid with us and took off. Even Dad never fucked us over like that.”

He raises a clenched fist, his whole body tense, and Phil draws in a sharp breath as he watches his husband reach forward—and jab Barney in the middle of the chest with two fingers. He hits him hard, hard enough that Barney sways, but Barney holds his ground.

His hands and shoulders flex, but he refuses to swing back.

Progress, Phil thinks, and half-jogs after his husband.

“You think I don’t know it took a month?” Barney retorts, and he ignores the way Clint grinds his teeth together. “You think I wasn’t missing my kid every day? That I wasn’t thinking of him, stuck with you guys, wondering what the hell happened to me? Shit, I—” His voice catches suddenly, and cuts himself off with a shake of his head. “I just spent four weeks on a fuckin’ wild goose chase and came up as empty-handed as I started. Trust me when I say that’s punishment enough for leavin’ P.J.”

Clint huffs out a hard breath. “That doesn’t even come _close_ to—”

“How empty-handed?” Phil asks automatically. Clint twists to glare at him, and he holds up a hand. “You spent four weeks chasing Ally around, and that’s— Well, it’s not _fine_ , but it’s the world we live in now. What I want to know is whether you accomplished anything while we cared for your son.”

Clint crosses his arms over his chest, his eyebrows rising, and Barney flicks his gaze between the two of them before he swallows. “Took care of the criminal charges down in Clarion County,” he finally answers, and a tiny coil of tension in Phil’s stomach relaxes slightly. “Prosecutor agreed to plea me out to something small. More probation, no time.”

“And?” his brother prompts.

“And that’s all.” Disbelief clouds Clint’s face as he rolls his eyes, but Barney just points a finger at him. “I did everything I fuckin’ could to find Ally,” he defends. “I chased her across the whole state, I checked in with every shithead addict friend of hers she ran with before we met, I called her old probation officers and visited county clerks. And instead of turning up with her, I’m dead broke and still on my own.” He tosses up his hands. “Never mind the fact that some bimbo called Trey lookin’ for me—” 

Phil swallows thickly, his mind flashing back to Skye Carson and her ill-advised phone call, but Clint just snorts. “Sounds right up your alley.”

“—and that now my kid’s the subject of some kinda child welfare _thing_. Sure I’ve got that curly-haired jackass outta your office to thank for that shit.”

“No, just yourself.” Barney blinks at Phil—or maybe, Phil thinks, at the sharp edge to his tone—but Phil ignores it as he shakes his head. “P.J. needed to go to the doctor, and we had no idea where you were. Without actual authority to treat him, the nurses called child services. The only way to keep him safe was to put him in the state’s custody and place him with us.”

“And put down rules for his parents, ‘cause they’d disappeared,” Clint adds. Barney shifts to glare at him, and he raises his hands. “Don’t look at me. I don’t make the rules. I just follow them to keep kids safe from their asshole parents.”

Barney huffs out a hard breath. “Yeah, ‘cause this is all on me.”

“Do you listen to yourself?” Clint demands suddenly, and Phil almost flinches at the raw, untapped anger in his voice. “When something great happens to you, it’s all on you—Barney, the fuckin’ king of the world—but the second something screws with you? That’s Trick’s fault. Or Dad’s. Or mine. Or Ally, the woman you love so damn much that you’d chase her around the whole state instead of being a fucking dad!” The last few words echo across their yard like a whip crack, and Clint finally sighs. “I can’t fix all your broken bullshit,” he says, “but I also can’t keep you away from your kid. Not legally, and not after all the shit our folks put us through. But as for everything else? I’m just fucking _done_.”

Phil rolls his lips together. “Clint—”

His husband shakes his head. “Tell him what he needs to know and get him outta here. I’ll be inside.”

He lingers there for a second, his body slumped enough that Phil wonders whether he lacks the physical strength to step away. Barney opens his mouth, his expression suddenly just on the wrong edge of helpless—but then, all at once, he snaps his jaw shut. The helplessness shifts to something hard and steel-forged, and by the time the storm door slams behind Clint, Phil wonders whether his brother-in-law even feels anything at all.

Then again, Phil thinks his own heart aches enough for the both of them.

“There’s a court order in place,” he says after a few more seconds, and Barney jerks his attention away from the back door. “Tasks for you, tasks for Ally . . . Standard fare, as far as I can tell. We have a copy I can give you, plus the contact information for P.J.’s caseworker.”

Barney nods unevenly. “Thanks,” he says quietly. 

“The trailer lot’s paid for through the end of July,” Phil continues, and he forces himself to ignore the momentary surprise that flashes across his brother-in-law’s face. “We drove past it a few times, and I’m pretty sure it’s still standing. Needs a good cleaning, but otherwise, it should be—”

“Why?” 

His voice cracks halfway through the word, and when Phil glances over at him, he rakes fingers through his already messy hair. For a second, Phil tries to imagine the Barney Barton of another universe—a broad-shouldered, grinning, healthy man, the spitting image of his brother aside from the difference in hair color—but the illusion vanishes the instant Barney swallows. Because his face and neck are thin, his shoulders just a little too bony, and Phil suddenly realizes that he’s lost a lot more than sleep and time with his son over the last month’s wild goose chase.

His eyes search Phil’s face, and Phil purses his lips. “We believed you’d come back,” he finally answers, and his stomach clenches as he remembers they’d less believed and more just blindly _hoped_. “You at least needed a place to live. Somewhere to start from, especially if you and Ally ever hope to get P.J. back.” 

Barney shakes his head. “Thought Clint was pissed at me.”

“We can be pissed at you and still not want you to fail, you know.” He ducks his head at that, his expression momentarily embarrassed, and Phil draws in a breath. “But Barney, let me be clear: this is the last chance you get. You blow it, and we’re not going to be in your camp anymore.”

Barney wets his lips. “I know, but—”

“You don’t get to do this again, Barney. Not to us, and especially not to P.J.”

He hesitates for a long time before he nods, almost like he suspects that Phil’s lying.

The real problem, Phil thinks, is just how desperately he means every last word. 

 

==

 

“And what about you?” Pepper asks as she reaches for her wine glass. “How are you holding up?”

She delivers the question with a tiny shrug, almost like they’re discussing the weather, but a tiny flutter of dread rushes through Phil’s gut, anyway. He slides Peggy the pita chips. “I’m not sure Jane was done talking about—”

“Trust me, Jane is _done_ ,” Jane herself interrupts, shaking her head. “Unless you want to hear more about unreadable tests and particle data that refuses to reconcile no matter how many times I recalibrate—”

“Please note that half of my brain just nodded off,” Peggy comments around a mouthful of spinach dip.

Jane snorts and shoots Phil a wry glance. “See? I’ve ranted as much as I can without putting everyone to sleep.”

“Including you,” Pepper points out with a tiny wave of her glass, and Phil raises a hand to concede the point. 

Their waitress, a tall blonde in a black dress, swings back to their table to ask about their bottle of wine, and Phil leaves the others to their critique as he scans the room. The wine bar’s new and bills itself as modern and chic, but somehow, it’s also embraced the full effect of the old brick building’s industrial flair; exposed metal beams stretch across the ceiling, the chairs and stools all scrape against a stamped concrete floor, and the _About Us_ section of the menu proudly brags about reclaimed wood and locally sourced artwork. The dim, low-hanging lights tinge everything a sort of vintage yellow. 

In short, the bar is the stomping grounds for people like Pepper Potts—and less for people who discovered mushed baby oatmeal on his last clean pair of slacks only after his first two hearings of the day.

He picks idly at the dried patch on his pants and smiles at the waitress as she leaves.

Peggy raises her eyebrows. “You’re already planning how to vote against adding this place to the rota, aren’t you?” 

“I’m more just trying to picture Darcy at a place that serves fried cauliflower instead of calamari,” he retorts, and Jane nearly chokes on her water.

Pepper rolls her eyes and—thanks to her finely honed deflection detector, most likely—abandons her wine glass to lean forward on the table. Between her black suit and silvery shell, she looks every part the attorney rather than the indispensable queen of the trial assistants. 

Phil swallows. 

“Barney reappeared on your doorstep two weeks ago and other than an oblique reference to your social worker—”

“Technically,” Phil points out, “he’s P.J.’s social worker.”

Pepper narrows her eyes. “Aside from a comment about P.J.’s social worker,” she amends, “you haven’t said anything. Not about how Barney’s doing following his court orders, not about how visits are going, and definitely not about how you feel. And while this isn’t necessarily an intervention—”

“Even though she wanted to call it one.” Pepper flicks her sharp gaze to Peggy, but the other woman just shrugs as she reaches for their cheese board. “What? I’m fine telling him that we voted it down two to one.”

“Three to one, if you count Darcy,” Jane chimes in.

Pepper sighs. “And I wonder sometimes why Natasha never wants to spend time with us,” she mutters, and Phil bites down on his grin.

Peggy winks at him, her lips curling into a wicked little grin, and for one brief second, he wonders exactly how many times his friends have discussed this whole “return of Barney” debacle behind his back. He guesses at least three or four times, but given the way Jane pretends she’s not watching him and the piercing heat of Pepper’s gaze, he suspects the number’s higher.

He thumbs the stem of his glass before he shrugs. “I know what you’re all expecting me to say—that Barney’s a hot mess, that he stole P.J. out of our arms instead of complying with the court orders, that he’s skipping out on all his meetings, that Clint’s ten minutes from committing murder—but honestly? Everything’s fine. Borderline _normal_ , really.” Pepper frowns, her brow creasing, and he raises a hand. “I know. I expected it to be a disaster, too. But as parents in child welfare cases go, he’s almost a model citizen.”

“Almost?” Jane echoes.

“Okay, completely.” She mimics Pepper’s frown, her nose wrinkling slightly, and Phil smiles sheepishly. “I don’t know what to tell you,” he admits with a little shake of his head. “The day after he showed up at our place, he called Kurt. Arranged an intake meeting, a walkthrough of the trailer, volunteered for a urine sample . . . He’s jumped through every hoop, signed every release form, you name it. Things keep heading in this direction, he’ll be allowed unsupervised visits next month. Kurt suspects they’re looking at less than six months before P.J. can head on home.”

His throat feels scratchy at the end of the last sentence, but he somehow holds onto his smile as he downs the last of his wine. Peggy cocks an eyebrow when he reaches for the bottle, and she purses her lips cautiously as he refills his glass. All three women keep staring at him.

Finally, Jane stops frowning to tip her head to the side. “And you’re okay with this?” she asks. “Barney left his baby with you for a month, and thanks to the child welfare case, he’s still with you. You two became— Well, not his parents, but something close to it. Even if Barney’s being halfway decent now, you have no way of knowing—”

“I know.” The flutter from earlier rumbles through the pit of Phil’s stomach again, and he clings to the edges of his smile as he glances down at his glass. “I’ve run through all of that in my head. But at the end of the day—”

“Oh, would you stop speaking in platitudes and be honest for ten bloody seconds?” Peggy blurts, and their glasses all rattle when she slaps the tabletop with her palm. The young women at the next table shoot them disapproving glances, but she ignores them to jab a finger at Phil. “You,” she accuses, “are more in touch with your feelings than everyone else at this table combined. And while skirting around the issue might work with your husband—thanks mostly to his inexplicable fondness for your body hair— _we_ are not so easily charmed.” She brushes a few stray curls out of her eyes. “And so, I ask again: how are you really handling the fact that your brother-in-law plans on taking his son home in a matter of months?”

Jane and Pepper both lower their heads—probably to avoid Peggy’s blood-curdling death glare—but Phil just purses his lips. For sixteen grueling days, he’s worked to avoid any negative feelings about Barney’s progress, but in the relative safety of a half-empty bar and surrounded by three of his closest friends, the dams begin to crumble and break. Because as much as he wants Barney to be a functioning member of society, he also wants a thousand other things.

Like frazzled mornings with flying globs of oatmeal and P.J.’s drool-soaked, delighted smile.

Like lazy Saturday afternoons filled with family naps in front of the television and long walks around the park.

Like late night cuddles to stave off bad dreams, evening showers where P.J. squints into the steam, and a thousand games of _crawl after the kitty while half-naked_.

Barney deserves to be a father to his son, Phil knows.

He just also knows how big a hole he’ll need to spackle over when that day arrives.

He sighs and rubs a hand over his face. “I don’t really want to talk about this,” he admits, his voice low and sticky. Pepper frowns, her lips parting slightly, and he shakes his head. “You all know how I feel about P.J.—how we _both_ feel—and after the last month, I don’t—”

He rolls his lips together and instead of finishing the sentence, swallows around the lump in the back of his throat. Across the table, Pepper and Peggy exchange meaningful (and slightly worried) glances, and Jane scratches her fingers through her long hair. Phil tries to appreciate the silence—after all, his evenings are usually full of squealing laughter—but instead, he feels hollow.

Practice for the hole in his heart, he thinks, and reaches for his wine.

“I can’t imagine losing Astrid,” Jane murmurs suddenly, and for some reason, Phil’s hand freezes halfway to his glass. With her bowed head, she reminds Phil of someone much younger—the undergraduate they hired all those years ago, instead of the doctoral candidate with a toddler and another on the way. She shakes her head. “I wake up in the middle of the night sometimes, convinced that someone’s taken her—that they’ve climbed in through the window, maybe, I don’t know—but I can always walk down the hall to check on her. Make sure she’s safe.” She raises her head just far enough to find Phil’s eyes. “I don’t know what I’d do without that. Without being able to reassure myself after every bad dream.”

Phil huffs out a soft breath. “Barney’s not a bad dream,” he says with a tiny shrug.

“No,” Pepper agrees, “but losing your baby is.”

That last comment, the one about losing P.J. (not, of course, that P.J. belongs to anyone except his parents) hangs over Phil like a heavy black rain cloud as he pays the tab and climbs into his car. He drives around town the long way, his windows rolled down and the warm night air whipping against his face and through his hair, and brick by brick, he rebuilds all his dams. He thinks of the Barney from two years ago and the Barney today—a man who wants to be responsible, mature, and honest—and he forces himself to appreciate all those changes.

By the time he swings into Stark’s circle drive, the bitterness is only a memory, an aftershock instead of a full earthquake.

P.J. beams and throws himself at Phil the instant Tony opens the door, and Phil barely manages to catch him under the armpits before he belly-flops right onto the floor. 

Tony, predictably, rolls his eyes. “I spend an hour trying to pass you off to Bruce and _now_ you decide to voluntarily leave the premises?” he demands. “Because that’s just rude.”

P.J. hides his giggle in Phil’s neck, but not without a couple quick, playful glance back at Tony. He squirms when Phil tickles his belly. “You picked the wrong Banner-or-Stark to befriend, you know.”

Tony throws up his hands. “Finally, one of the kid’s almost-parents reveals the truth!” he announces, and ushers Phil the rest of the way inside.

P.J. uncurls from Phil’s shoulder the second he hears Clint’s shout of victory from the living room, and by the time they round the corner, he’s clapping to the chipper Mario Kart music. Miles swears under his breath, his whole body tilting as his character rounds a corner, and Teddy promptly elbows him. “Out of my personal space,” he growls, his teeth bared.

Miles screws up his face. “If we’re going to beat him—”

“Then you need to stop crowding me off the couch!” Teddy retorts, and he shoulder-checks his foster brother just as a red shell knocks Bowser off the track. 

“Nobody ever won through sibling rivalry,” Clint informs them smugly, and the teens both glare at him as Waluigi zips into first place.

“And Amy wonders why we supervise the three of you,” Bruce comments blandly. He’s curled up in an armchair, a book open on his lap, but Phil suspects that he’s really watching the video game. Tony walks over and flops onto the arm of the chair, and he rolls his eyes as his husband stretches into his personal space. “Please don’t be smug about finally relinquishing the baby.”

“Losing,” Tony corrects. “Relinquishing sounds too voluntary.”

“And god forbid you do anything voluntary with the baby,” Clint replies. He tips his head in Phil’s direction for a moment, and Phil basks in his warm little grin. “You know how many times I tried to peel that kid away from Stark? But he just wouldn’t have it.”

“The baby wouldn’t have it,” Tony points out. “I, on the other hand, was very pro-peeling.”

Bruce ducks his head back to his book, but not without a tiny smile. “Consider this practice for when Steve and Bucky have their second.”

Tony levels a finger at his husband’s nose. “Steve and Bucky produce preternaturally smart children who avoid me until they’re old enough to communicate. I like those children. This one?” The finger drifts across the living room, and P.J. beams and kicks his legs. Tony wrinkles his nose. “This one is trouble with a capital T. Which, incidentally, rhymes with B and just so happens to stand for Barton.”

Bruce swallows around a chuckle, but Phil just frowns. “Did you just quote _The Music Man_?” he asks.

Tony shrugs. “Teddy and his boyfriend usurped the television last weekend for a magical musical marathon, and now all the lyrics are burned into my brain. It’s only a matter of time before I start asking Sitwell how he solves a problem like Maria.”

Teddy fires off a blue spiked shell before glancing over in Tony’s direction. “You do realize nobody _made_ you watch them with us, right?”

His foster father raises a hand. “Details,” he says, and he pulls a face when Miles and Clint both snicker in unison.

Clint loses the four-race Mario Kart cup to Miles and a string of gold invincibility stars, but he also crowds in close against Phil’s back as they bid the whole Banner-Stark family goodnight. He recounts his evening on the drive home—playing blocks and peek-a-boo with Amy and P.J. until Amy left for a sleepover, finishing off leftover pizza and discussing work with Bruce, and playing endless video games while P.J. clung to his new best friend Tony—but Phil loses himself in the steady cadence of Clint’s voice. For the first time in this roller coaster summer, their normal life is finally within their reach, and Phil wants to slide into that realization like slipping into a warm bath. In a few months, they’ll return to the routine from before that rainy June night, one where they read together on the couch with a baseball game on as white noise and no one worries about how much cat hair’s stuck to the block P.J.’s chewing on.

“He practically stalks Tony,” Clint continues, and Phil glances away from the road just long enough to catch his gaze. He tips back against the headrest and smiles. “Don’t repeat this to him, but it’s kinda sweet. Shows a different side to the guy.”

Phil snorts and shakes his head. “I still sometimes wonder if Tony’s whole ‘doting husband and father’ routine isn’t a collective delusion on all our parts.”

Clint grins. “You worry he’s setting the bar too high, boss?”

“If you’re naming Tony as the benchmark, we might as well split up right now,” Phil replies, and Clint laughs hard enough that he jerks P.J. out of his car-induced half-sleep.

P.J. fights bedtime, fussing and squirming as they change him into his pajamas, and they trade shifts walking him around the guest room. Clint looms in the doorway during Phil’s last circuit, his lips pursed and his eyes dark with something like promise, and Phil ignores the way his stomach clenches every time they glance at one another. Still, Clint grabs him by his belt loops as they step into the hallway, and Phil’s whole body thrums as his husband pins him against the wall.

“Good girl’s night?” he asks, his voice low and husky.

“Somehow, I think my answer might be irrelevant.”

“Knew I married you for your brains,” Clint replies, and he cuts off Phil’s laugh with a kiss.

For the first time in what feels like a long time—since before P.J., Phil thinks—they kiss like time’s no barrier, like there’s a thousand years between this moment and the next one. They trail their clothes through the hall, the doorway, on their own bedroom floor, tossing away shirts and belts in favor of languid, drawn-out touches. In caresses, in hands that trail down Clint’s spine and leave him shivering, in the first blunt rasp of fingernails across Phil’s chest, in all the tiny shows of appreciation that worry and exhaustion stole from them.

They fall together onto the mattress, kissing and rocking into one another until Phil’s not sure where he stops and Clint begins, and he only realizes just how overwhelmed he is when he unravels with a shuddering gasp, his hips bucking into Clint’s fist.

“Got you,” Clint whispers, a promise that somehow leaves Phil shaking. “Always got you.”

And Phil almost feels guilty, except for the way Clint falls apart under his hands only a few minutes later.

They wash up quickly after that, still sharing tiny touches as they brush their teeth and examine the stubble burn on Phil’s shoulder, and Phil smiles to himself as Clint collapses onto his shoulder and falls immediately to sleep. He runs his fingers through his husband’s hair, studies the lines on his face in the dim light, traces a scar on his jaw from a whole lifetime ago. He memorizes Clint as he sleeps off a day of work and baby-wrangling, and he smiles.

Except when he finally closes his eyes, he remembers Pepper’s knowing gaze from across the table, and the words _losing your baby_.

And when he finally sleeps, he dreams about P.J.

 

==

 

“Yeah, no, he’s not my kid.”

Phil stops abruptly enough in front of a display of _Frozen_ -branded toothbrushes that the woman behind him nearly rams into the backs of his thigh with her cart. She swears under her breath, and he forces a polite smile as he steps out of her way and into Target’s main aisle. Above him, Pharrell Williams’s “Happy” plays for the fifth or sixth time, and ten feet away, a toddler throws himself down in the middle of the laundry aisle and howls. Just an average Saturday afternoon, really, aside from the fact that Phil’s gripping a bag of cat foot hard enough he expects it might burst.

The woman with the cart glares as she passes, and he peeks around the aisle endcap.

Clint and P.J. stand about ten feet away in front of a long row of different shaving creams. In the cart, P.J. shakes the toothpaste box and grins at the rattling, but next to him, Clint swallows thickly. His whole body’s tight, almost coiled, and Phil rolls his lips together.

He knows his husband well enough to recognize that kind of anxious tension ten miles away.

“It’s fine,” Clint says tightly, and for the first time, Phil realizes that he’s not alone in the aisle. Instead, an older woman stares up at him, slight surprise etched on her features. Clint shrugs at her. “I mean, it’s probably not the first time somebody’s assumed, but—”

“You look a lot alike,” the woman challenges, and Phil’s breath catches in his throat when Clint snaps his jaw shut. The woman raises her hands. “Lord knows I heard it enough with my sister’s children. ‘You could be their mama,’ my friends said to me. But like I always told them, it’s hard to have babies when you can’t find somebody to make ‘em with.” Clint blinks, his face actually softening, and the woman glances back at P.J. “You said he’s your nephew?”

“Yeah.”

“Your brother’s boy, or your sister’s?”

Clint purses his lips for a moment. “I just have a brother.”

“And where is that boy’s daddy?” P.J. waves the box over his head and crows, and the woman grins hard enough that it warms her entire face. “I bet your daddy loves you like nobody’s business, sweetheart,” she tells the baby, and Phil watches as Clint’s shoulders finally start to slump. “Face like that, you must be everybody’s favorite little man.”

P.J. squeals when she tickles his side, his whole body tipping sideways in the cart’s plastic baby seat, and it’s only when he finishes wriggling that he spots Phil at the end of the aisle. “Da!” he calls, his arms shooting out in front of him, and Phil feels all the color drain from his face as both Clint and the woman swing around to gape at him. His heart climbs into his throat and chokes him, but his feet remain rooted to the tile floor.

P.J., oblivious, kicks out his legs and squirms. “Da!” he shouts again, more desperate than the first time, and the worry that flutters across his tiny face snaps Phil into action. 

“You miss me already?” he asks as he walks up to the cart, and he ignores the woman’s piercing stare as he drops the cat food into their mostly full cart. P.J. beams at him, his fingers curling in Phil’s t-shirt, and Phil shakes his head as he scoops him up. “Gone three minutes, and you’re desperate. You’re worse than Uncle Clint.”

Clint snorts. “Says the guy who swings by to ‘borrow’ a pen at ten every morning.”

“Because I worry about you suffering from withdrawal,” Phil replies, and Clint rolls his eyes. He settles P.J. onto his hip before he looks over at the stranger. “Do I need to ask which one of them decided to make friends?” he asks. “Because as hard as I try to socialize them, they’re still learning basic manners.”

Next to him, Clint pulls a vaguely offended face, but the woman just narrows her eyes and spends a few seconds examining Phil from head to toe. Finally, though, she shakes her head and hums to herself. “I don’t know what they put in the water around here,” she says, “but I wish more men my age drank it.”

Clint blinks, his whole face reddening, and Phil barely resists his urge to duck his head away from his own almost-blush. “Someone should suggest that to the county commissioner,” he says mildly, and he forces a smile when she laughs.

Still, Clint waits until she disappears around the aisle’s far endcap before he finally exhales and scratches a hand through his hair. “Bruce always says that having kids around paints a big ‘talk to me about your life’ target on your back, but _shit_. Thought she’d ask me for a DNA swab and a total family history.”

Phil raises his eyebrows. “Or your hand in marriage?”

Clint grins. “Nah, we led off with how my husband’s the only person impressed by my shopping skills.” Phil almost rolls his eyes at that, but Clint just leans in and wiggles one of P.J.’s chubby legs. “And _you_ ,” he says while the baby grins, “need to stop being so cute. ‘Cause if we’ve gotta stop coming to Target, Uncle Phil’s going to need therapy.”

Phil scowls. “I can quit any time I want to.”

“Not according to your Target card.” 

This time, Phil definitely rolls his eyes, but not before Clint grins and bumps their hips together. P.J. stretches in his direction, his fingers grasping air until they curl in Clint’s t-shirt, and Clint grins as he plucks him from Phil’s hip. They talk to one another, P.J. babbling and Clint pretending to listen, as Phil steers the cart, and Phil catches at least three other women watching them and smiling. 

Clint, of course, misses all of it. Instead, his attention belongs to P.J.

But fifteen minutes later, after P.J. and his rattling box of toothpaste are safely buckled in the back of the car, Clint hefts the bag of cat food and remarks, “I just wish people didn’t say it.”

Phil stops sticking out his tongue at P.J.—a surefire way to keep him entertained while they load the trunk—to glance over, but Clint expertly avoids his gaze. He drops the heavy bag into the trunk, his head bowed, and rearranges a few more bags. Busy work, Phil recognizes, but he purses his lips instead of commenting.

Clint straightens the box of diapers and sighs. “I know we look related,” he continues. “People mixed me and Barney up for years, before his hair turned so red. But I still wish they’d just keep it to themselves. Strangers especially.”

Phil draws in a breath. “Clint—”

“He’s not our kid, Phil.” When Clint finally glances over in Phil’s direction, finally dares to find Phil’s gaze with his own, his expression’s distant enough that Phil’s heart aches. He swallows thickly, and Clint shakes his head. “We can take care of him, we can love him, but he just— He’s not ours. He’s never gonna _be_ ours. You know?”

Phil’s stomach sinks like a stone, but he nods. “I know,” he murmurs, and when he glances at P.J. through the back windshield, P.J. kicks his legs and smiles. 

 

==

 

“You know that you still have options, right? Even now, you’re not absolutely doomed.”

Phil huffs out a breath and shakes his head, but Maria just raises her eyebrows. For the last fifteen minutes, they’ve leaned against the trunk of his car and admired the streaks of pink and purple spanning the evening sky, but now, she studies him carefully. When he purses his lips, she folds her hands over her bulging belly and waits.

“You know I asked you here to cover a hearing for me, not to bare my soul.”

“And I’m very good at multitasking.” He snorts at her, and she nudges their shoulders together. “I’m not the rest of the group, Phil. I don’t need to hear about whether your heart sinks every time you drive that baby to visit his dad, or whether you’re worried about tomorrow’s— What’d you call it?”

“Family-supervised visit,” he answers. His voice sounds distant, even to his own ears.

“Right.” Maria tilts her head until he finally glances in her direction. “But I need you to remember that not all the doors you keep rattling are closed and locked. You’re _not_ doomed.”

Phil narrows his eyes. “Are you implying that most men my age are doomed?”

“Well, you are incredibly old.” When he scowls at her, she flashes him a wicked grin. “Hey,” she defends, raising her hands, “I like older men. Just look at Jasper. But I also know what that sad puppy dog look on your face means, and I think you need the reminder.”

“Yes, because I’ve certainly been a ‘sad puppy’ enough times to—”

“You mean besides when you kept waiting to meet the right guy?” Phil snaps his mouth shut, his lips pursing, but Maria just holds his gaze. “Or when you and Clint almost split up the first time? And when you almost split up the second time, actually, never _mind_ —”

He sighs. “It suddenly occurs to me that I need better friends.”

“Or at least ones who can’t read you like a book.” He rolls his eyes, the perfect excuse to break her stare and turn back to the few huge clouds stretching across the slowly darkening sky, but Maria shrugs. “You’re allowed to want the things you want, Phil,” she says quietly, and he swallows as his stomach twists. “A husband, a quiet life, a kid . . . You don’t need to shove all your dreams into a shoebox and hide them under your bed just because you’ve reached some arbitrary date where you’re too old for any of it. Or too, I don’t know, screwed up from poor parenting and failed marriages to dream anymore.”

Her tone shifts slightly, too subtle for most people to hear, and Phil drops his head to watch her slide her palm along the broad expanse of her belly. He almost smiles. “You know you switched to talking about yourself, right?”

She rolls her eyes. “I know how you work. One example’s never enough.” He chuckles at that, and she smiles slightly as she shakes her head. For a moment, they linger there, shoulders touching in the relative quiet of the summer night. “You can still have kids. The real question is whether you want to.”

Phil ignores the way his chest tightens as he shrugs. “And whether Clint wants to.”

“Well, that’s the one question only your husband can answer.”

He nods a little, his head bobbing without his permission, and Maria leans her weight against them as the last splotches of color finally fade from the evening sky. He considers telling her about the woman at Target, but some tiny voice in the back of his head stops him. Some things, he decides in that instant, are private, memories to save for when P.J.’s only a weekend visitor.

Even if Phil’s whole body aches every time he thinks of that little boy’s smile as he shouted, _Da!_

“Oh, for the love,” Maria swears suddenly, and Phil jerks out of his own thoughts just as she presses a palm to the bottom of her belly. She leans forward slightly, widening her stance slightly, and Phil only realizes the panic in his own expression when she glances at him and rolls her eyes. “I’m not dying, Phil. He’s just kicking me in all my softest spots and hoping I don’t mind.”

“And you’re doubling over because—”

“We’re at critical mass. Every time he stretches, I end up panting like I’m in a marathon.” He laughs at that, but Maria just rubs the side of her belly. “Just know that I’m about five minutes from digging him out with a spoon.”

Phil grins. “Like you’d evict him without following proper legal process,” he teases, and Maria scowls at him.

 

==

 

“Mister Wagner should be in soon,” the receptionist tells Phil for the fifth time, her fingers curling in the cord on desk phone. “I’m not sure what else to tell you, since Mister Barton’s number keeps ringing out and—”

“Are you sure we’re not early?” Phil interrupts. Behind him, P.J. bangs a Duplo against the leg of a chair and babbles to himself. “My husband planned on supervising the visit, but he’s in trial today and—”

“No, you’re right on schedule.” She hangs up the phone and smiles sheepishly. “Still no answer from Mister Barton. But as soon as Mister Wagner’s here—”

“You might have a better idea of what’s happening, yeah,” Phil replies, and she nods politely as she returns to her computer.

The Suffolk County Child Services office reminds Phil of the doctors’ and dentists’ offices of his youth: quiet, sanitized, and entirely too bland. The faded, halfway peeling wallpaper features tiny yellow flowers, the chairs are all upholstered in inoffensive industrial grays, and the speckled tiles gleam under the fluorescent lights. Down the hall, three or four visitation rooms wait, resplendent with fake wood paneling, brightly colored children’s furniture, and all manner of toys, but the reception area just reminds Phil of his middle school root canal.

At least the receptionist’d brought out a couple bottles of water and a box of Duplos.

“Not in the mouth,” Phil instructs as he returns to his nephew, and P.J. blinks up at him, spit-soaked plastic block in one hand. Phil sighs as he kneels down on the floor, and he helps P.J. add the damp block to the tower they’d started a half-hour ago. No, Phil realizes as he checks his watch. Forty-five minutes ago, now.

His stomach sinks as P.J. thrusts another block at him.

Barney’s now officially forty-five minutes late to his visit.

Phil digs his phone out of his pocket and swipes through to his text messages, but of course, the most recent thread is still the group message from Jasper to the rest of the office. _Maria’s in labor, updates when I can_ , he’d sent as Phil and P.J. had dressed for their visit with Barney, and a dozen well-wishes had trickled in behind it.

Phil thumbs open the last message from Clint, time-stamped almost an hour earlier. _bathroom break. opening solid, first witness shaky. don’t know why i started with the guy who called the cops. tell barney i would’ve been here except for the trial and kiss the kid for me._

Phil glances as his response—a stupid, blurry selfie of him kissing P.J.’s temple while P.J. wriggles and laughs—and immediately hits the back button.

He stares at the line of names for a long time before he slides his phone back into his pocket. 

“Uh?” P.J. asks, his arms outstretched, and Phil forces a smile as he sweeps the baby into his lap. P.J. grins, flopping back against his chest until he can watch Phil’s face, and he babbles nonsense as Phil brushes hair out of his eyes. He needs a haircut, Phil thinks, and probably new shoes.

Worries that don’t belong to him, he reminds himself, and ruffles P.J.’s hair.

“Remind me why not all of my cases involve happy babies who cannot talk,” a familiar voice grumbles behind them, and Phil glances up from their block tower just as the front door slams behind a frazzled Kurt Wagner. “I’m sorry. I got all your messages, but with the fourteen-year-old attitude problem in my other case, I could not—”

“It’s okay,” Phil says, although a tiny spike of anxiety creeps up his spine. P.J. sticks another Duplo in his mouth, his big eyes studying Kurt carefully, and this time, Phil leaves him to his own devices. “I didn’t know what the protocol was, so—”

“The protocol,” Kurt interrupts with a little shake of his head, “is that I call _Herr_ Barton, apply every bit of charm in my arsenal, and figure out why he is late for a visit he confirmed twice.” He digs a hand through his hair and offers Phil a halfhearted smile. “Five or ten minutes, _ja_? Then, we will hopefully know what is going on.”

“Hopefully,” Phil echoes, and Kurt claps him on the shoulder as he bustles past.

Twenty minutes later, Kurt props the door to his office open and forces a grin. “Welcome to my parlor, said the spider to the fly,” he quotes, and tickles P.J.’s belly as they cross the threshold.

Unlike the sanitized reception area, Kurt’s office is so full of color and light that Phil wonders for a moment whether Cirque du Soleil is in town. He counts at least a dozen circus-themed knick-knacks, two different posters from Errol Flynn movies, and a towering stack of books on topics including theology, psychology, and _Doctor Who_. Personal snapshots hang haphazardly on a bulletin board, and Phil thinks he recognizes the boarding school in the background of a few.

He definitely recognizes the worry on Kurt’s face as he rounds his desk. He flops down into his chair and draws in a long breath before finally meeting Phil’s eyes. “There’s good news,” he says after a beat, “but there’s also bad news.”

Phil’s chest tightens slightly, but he raises his eyebrows anyway. “Do I get to pick the order?”

Kurt snorts. “You’re an attorney. Attorneys always want the bad news first.”

Phil attempts to smile at the other man’s charming, deadpan delivery, but he recognizes his failure the second Kurt sighs. He rubs the side of his neck guiltily. “I tried your brother-in-law at three different numbers,” he explains, “and all three went to voicemail. I tried the other contacts he provided, and the same. No answer, no return calls.”

“Par for the course with Barney,” Phil mutters unthinkingly. Kurt frowns, his brow bunching, and Phil pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry. It’s just that Barney has a habit of avoiding Clint and me when things turn rocky.”

“We should not assume that things are rocky.” Despite the seriousness of the conversation, Kurt stretches back in his chair and props a sneakered foot up on the edge of the desk. “I called his probation officer, and he said Barney’s kept in touch. Stayed compliant. That’s important. And he promised that if he hears anything, we will be his first call.”

The coils of tension in Phil’s stomach roll around one another but refuse to unknot. He purses his lips briefly before asking, “Is that the good news?”

Kurt frowns slightly. “What?”

“The fact that he’s obeying his probation officer. Because I’ve worked enough probation revocation hearings to—”

Kurt’s laugh is warm but completely unexpected, and Phil catches himself scowling as the other man waves a hand. “I’m sorry,” he says, shaking his head, “but _mein Gott_ , you are more pessimistic than six Logan Howletts. _Nein_ , the good news is not that Barney’s probation officer is not worried. It is that I am not worried.”

Phil blinks. “You’re not?”

“ _Nein_. And honestly, you shouldn’t be either.” He drops his foot back onto the ground and leans forward, crossing his arms on top of his desk. For a moment, he just studies Phil’s face, and Phil wonders how much untampered worry is playing across his expression. Finally, though, the social worker shakes his head. “For three weeks, Barney has done everything I’ve asked. He has jumped through every hoop, which is more than I can say for most people. He’s worked hard, shown dedication to bringing his son home.”

To prove his point, he finger-waves at P.J. The baby tips his head to hide against Phil’s shirt and tie, but after a beat, he shyly waves back.

Kurt grins. “Parents who are working this hard, doing all the right things? Sometimes, they miss a bus. Or their work shift changes. Or they sleep through their alarm clock _und_ don’t think about calling in the absence.” He shrugs. “He’s compliant with his probation officer, and he’s compliant with me. Until one of those things changes, we should not panic. Not when he has been so dedicated until now.”

“You mean for the last three weeks,” Phil points out, and he works hard not to flinch at the bitterness that creeps into his tone.

Kurt’s expression tightens slightly. “For a very good three weeks.” He sighs and shakes his head again. “I know this is hard, _Herr_ Coulson, but right now, Barney has earned the benefit of the doubt.”

Phil swallows around the uncertainty that burbles up from his stomach. “Until when?”

“Until we have reason to doubt him again.”

 

==

 

“The benefit of the doubt? Are you really asking me to hand that fucker the benefit of the doubt?”

The steps in front of Barney’s trailer’s front door shudder as Clint thunders down them, and Phil scrubs a hand over his face instead of answering immediately. The late July humidity bears down on them, leaving wet patches under their arms and plastering their collars to their necks, and Phil desperately wants to drive home. Instead, he watches as his husband stalks around to the back of Barney’s trailer, his angry footsteps leaving a trail of dust behind him.

In the stroller, P.J. shoves another couple cheerios into his mouth and cranes his neck to stare after his uncle.

The trailer park of Clint’s youth—and, presumably, P.J.’s future—reminds Phil of a ghost town tonight, and he shivers against the silence despite the suffocating heat of the summer evening. Three of the trailers in Barney’s row sag miserably on their lots, and pink eviction notices pepper another half-dozen doors in the immediate vicinity. Signs advertising the new ownership and management clutter up the empty spaces between trailers, looming like sentinels over picnic tables and built-in community grills.

Phil wonders for a moment whether Anissa Silva and her mother still live halfway across the trailer park.

Then, Clint swears and kicks something, and Phil abandons the thought.

“I don’t even know why we fucking bother anymore,” Clint complains as he reappears, sweat dripping down his temple and onto his open shirt collar. “What’s the point? ‘Cause we help him, we support him, we cheerlead for him, and every fucking time—”

“Kurt said that sometimes, parents miss meetings,” Phil cuts in. Clint whips his head around to glare, but he raises his hands. “I’m not happy about this either, but just because he skipped—”

“Town?” Clint snaps, jabbing an angry finger at the trailer. “‘Cause he’s not here, Phil. He’s _gone_. And if you wanna attribute that to him missing the bus on the way to child services, then—”

He cuts himself off with a sharp shake of his head, and Phil rolls his lips together. The tension from Kurt’s office that morning, tension that he’s fought against all day, crawls through him like a parasite. His shoulders and jaw tighten, his fingers flex, and he works hard to keep his breathing steady.

“Finish the sentence,” he says. Clint whips around in the middle of pacing and blinks at him, but Phil just raises his chin. “You clearly have a lot more to say. Finish the sentence.”

Clint rolls his eyes. “There’s no point in me—”

“You’re pissed about losing your case today,” Phil pushes, and he feels the frustration—maybe his own, maybe Clint’s—looming between them, white-hot and heavier than any humidity. “You’re pissed at your brother. Those things are fair. But if you’re pissed at me, you could at least have the decency to—”

“Of course I’m fucking pissed at you!” Clint’s shout cracks like a gunshot, scaring off a cluster of sparrows and causing P.J. to dump his cheerios into his lap. He blinks at them, his mouth hanging open, but Clint just throws up his hands. “Do you even know how you sound, half the time? Telling me the guy deserves the benefit of the doubt, that he’s earned a second chance, that we’ve gotta support him even when he throws it all back in our faces?” He huffs out a hard breath. “I mean, you might not be obligated to give a damn, but his baby’s in our house and—”

“You think I don’t care?” 

Phil’s voice shudders with the question, quaking as hard and as fast as his heart in his chest, and he swears for a second that he stops breathing as Clint snaps his jaw shut. For a moment, they stare at each other in silence, separated by ten feet of dusty ground and eight weeks of stress and uncertainty. Clint’s chest heaves, and when his hands fall to his sides, Phil expects him to apologize, backpedal, or worse.

Instead, he wets his lips and says. “You sure act like it.”

The words punch Phil in the stomach, a physical blow that almost knocks the wind right from his lungs, and when he huffs out a breath, he swears part of his heart tumbles out with it. He shakes his head, but even that can’t clear out the hurt.

Or the lump in the back of his throat, or the damp in his eyes.

“Two months,” he finally says, his voice low but somehow still clear enough, at least to his own ears. “For two months, I’ve done everything in my power to support you. To support P.J. To keep our lives moving forward even though every second is a reminder—” The words stick, and he shakes his head again, harder than before. “I might not care by yelling, or by kicking air conditioners and ripping your head off, but trust me when I say I care.”

This time, his voice cracks, and Clint draws in a sharp breath. “Phil—”

Phil cuts him off by holding a hand. “I care,” he repeats, more solidly. “If anything, I care way too fucking much.”

The last word hangs between them for a beat before it fades into silence, and Clint parts his lips without uttering a single sound. Instead, they stand and stare at each other, still as statues and twice as cold, and Phil—

All at once, Phil remembers last summer, with all the lies and the silence and the empty space between them, and his heart constricts like someone squeezed it in their fist.

And in that second, Clint’s cell phone rings.

The ringtone, a Wiz Khalifa song Darcy picked out and programmed in without his permission, blasts through the ghost town quiet of the trailer park, and Clint swears as he digs it out of his pocket and swipes across the screen. “Barton,” he barks, his voice tight, and Phil finally drags his eyes away. He crouches down in front of P.J., picking cheerios out of the stroller seat and smiling slightly when the baby offers him one, and he works hard to ignore Clint’s curt one-syllable responses to the call as he smoothes his fingers through his nephew’s hair.

“We’ll head home soon,” he promises, his thumb stroking over P.J.’s forehead. “Dinner, bath time, maybe a little cat-chasing, and then—”

“Phil?” 

The sound of Clint’s voice punches Phil in the chest again, but he breathes through it this time. He bops P.J.’s nose lightly and brushes off his slacks as he stands. He keeps his head ducked and his eyes fixed on the baby until the last possible second—and the instant he glances in Clint’s direction, his heart drops into his stomach.

Clint’s mouth twitches as he swallows thickly, but nothing hides the bald-faced worry that’s etched across his expression—or worse, the dread in his eyes. He drums his fingers against his cell phone as he wets his lips.

“That, uh, that was the Union County jail,” he says, and instead of angry, his voice sounds desperate and distant. “Guess they just picked up a crew on an armed robbery, and one of them got beat up real bad. Had to call his next of kin for him.”

Phil swears in that moment that his heart stops. “Barney?” he asks roughly.

Clint nods. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s Barney.”


	9. Twenty (Thousand) Questions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Phil and Clint realize just how many secrets Barney’s keeping from them. But Barney’s loathe to listen to them or anyone else. Lucky that Phil’s friends force him to listen. (Or at least, they try.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things I know about jails: precious little. Seriously. I’ve only ever visited two county jails, and both were in fairly affluent places. I suspect they don’t resemble real jails very much. The rest of my mental pictures are drawn from such quality sources as _Prison Break_.
> 
> Thanks as always to my magnificent beta-readers, Jen and saranoh. I can never say enough about how great they are. I don't know if sufficient words even exist.

“Not too often we get you out-of-town district attorneys out here on business,” the guard says. “This guy must’ve really pissed you two off.”

Clint snorts. “You have no idea.”

The guard grins crookedly as he slides them their visitor’s badges, and Phil forces a polite smile as he clips his to his breast pocket. The harsh lines of the metal sign-in desk and cinderblock walls remind Phil of just about every other jailhouse he’s visited over the years, never mind the rattling noise of the secure door slowly sliding open. From the outside, the Union County Jail resembles the nearby courthouse and the city hall, all crumbling limestone and well-worn stairs. Inside, though, the stark gray hallways remind Phil of the fallout shelters in old Cold War documentaries: barren, empty, and stretching on for miles.

Their footfalls echo as another guard—this one younger, with a crew cut and a sharp jaw—beckons them down the hallway. He leads them through a green-doored elevator before he spares them a glance. 

“Union County attorneys know you’re here?” he asks plainly.

Clint bristles slightly, but Phil shrugs. “Our cases don’t overlap.”

The guard huffs out a hard breath. “Like that’s ever stopped them from busting somebody’s balls,” he replies and thumbs the button for the third floor.

The silence that greets them when they step back off the elevator almost overwhelms Phil, and he feels his heart climb further into his throat with every noisy footstep. Guards pass them at random intervals—some walking with a prisoner, some alone—and every time a new one appears, Clint straightens his spine and stares resolutely ahead.

The fourth or fifth time, Phil touches his husband’s elbow. “Relax,” he murmurs.

Clint shakes his head. “Never liked jails,” he mutters, and Phil watches him for a moment before nodding.

Last night still replays through Phil’s mind, a blur of futile swearing, pacing, and information-gathering. Because the intake officers at the jail had refused to provide any details beyond the next day’s visiting hours, Phil’s few contacts at the Union County Sheriff’s Department knew next to nothing about the incident (and one, frustrated with Phil’s sharp tone, had actually hung up on him), and Fury had practically laughed in Phil’s face when he’d called. 

“There is no way on this planet or another one that I am sticking my head in the rat’s nest those people call a district attorney’s office,” he’d declared. “How somebody as soft-hearted as Murdock works in that hellhole, I will never know.”

Phil’d bit back a groan. “Nick—”

“You can’t ‘Nick’ me on this one, Coulson,” his friend had replied, and he’d rested his forehead against the doorjamb. “If you have other strings to pull, pull them. Because the last thing I need is another district attorney accusing me of favors, and trust me when I say Saxon’ll do just that.”

In the end—and after a few more frustrating phone calls—Phil’d discovered Clint and P.J. sitting together on the front step. P.J.’d crowed and clapped for Phil, and Phil’d somehow smiled. “Nick said—”

“Sorry.” Clint’s voice had sounded distant, almost choked, and Phil’d pursed his lips. When he glanced up, his husband’s eyes had glimmered in their porch light. “For being a dick. Might not know what to do about Barney, but I know I owe you that.”

Even as his stomach’d clenched, Phil’d shaken his head. “Don’t worry about it.”

Clint’d snorted. “Yeah, ‘cause that’s gonna happen,” he’d muttered, but he’d also closed his eyes when Phil’d threaded fingers through his hair.

Phil considers that touch for a moment before the guard stops them outside another green door. “He’s not in bad shape,” he warns, his sharp eyes flicking between Phil and Clint, “but the doctor wanted to keep an eye on him. Make sure he doesn’t pull any stitches out in the yard.”

“He have a lot of stitches?” Clint asks, his voice and expression perfectly even.

The guard shrugs. “Enough,” he replies, and opens the door.

The infirmary in the county jail consists only of a couple lackluster hospital beds, a long counter covered in the usual canisters, and several locked metal cabinets (presumably hiding all the medications and dangerous medical equipment). The doctor’s office is squirreled away in a corner and half-hidden behind chicken-wire glass; in another corner, a bored-looking guard flips idly through a magazine.

Three of the four beds are empty.

In the fourth is Barney Barton.

Clint inhales roughly, nearly gasping, and Phil automatically reaches out to touch the small of his back. Even from across the room, Barney’s face is a motley collection of angry bruises and cuts, some of which boast messy stitches. His lower lip and one eye are both grotesquely swollen, and as they cross the room (Phil’s fingers still pressed to Clint’s back), Phil spots bruises on his throat, too. 

He shifts awkwardly in the bed, a sorry attempt to sit up a little straighter, and for a moment, Phil’s not certain whether he’s grimacing or smiling. At least, until he holds up a hand. “Know what you’re thinking,” he greets, “but before you judge, you gotta see the other guy.”

Clint’s carefully schooled expression immediately crash-lands into a scowl. Barney’s mouth twitches again, this time resembling a crooked grin, and Phil flattens his palm against his husband’s back in a silent plea for patience. Clint’s jaw tightens, but he keeps his mouth shut.

The guard, on the other hand, glances between the three of them. “I don’t know how much you know about this guy, but—”

Barney snorts. “You kidding me? They know plenty.” The guard rolls his lips together, confusion flickering across his face, and Barney blinks at him. “Wait. Don’t tell me. These guys pulled the lawyer card on you.”

“Barney,” Clint warns, his voice almost a growl.

“Shit, this is fucking—” He shakes his head in mock disappointment, and Phil grits his teeth against the sudden spike of fury that threatens to bubble up out of his stomach. “Officer Hainey, meet my baby brother Clinton and his busy-body husband.”

The guard shifts to blink helplessly in Clint and Phil’s direction, and Phil forces himself to smile placidly. “We’re also Suffolk County Assistant District Attorneys,” he promises. “We didn’t pull that out of thin air.”

“No, just shouldered your way into a jail with your fancy fuckin’ badges,” Barney retorts, and Phil swears the only thing that stops Clint from adding a few new bruises to his brother’s face is the still-looming Officer Hainey.

The officer studies them for a few more seconds before he finally huffs out a hard breath and shakes his head. “You kill each other, and Carter over there’ll have to clean up the mess,” he says, gesturing to the guard near the door. “He hates the sight of blood.”

Without glancing up from his magazine, Carter nods. “Makes me gag.”

“No one will be killing anyone else, I promise,” Phil assures both guards, and Hainey squints at him for one last beat before he leaves them in peace.

Barney waits until the door slides shut behind him to slouch back against the bed. For the first time since they’d walked into the room, Phil realizes how exhausted and empty the other man looks, and how white and chalky the parts of his face not marred by bruises really are. 

Barney raises a hand like he wants to rub his face, pauses at the last second, and shakes his head instead. “The fuckin’ politics in this place,” he grumbles. “Some of the guards are okay, some of them are power-hungry assholes. Last thing they need are sticks and badges. Hainey’s mostly okay, but you give him an inch—”

Phil tightens his fists as the barely contained anger from just a few minutes earlier bubbles right back to the surface. “You’re posturing,” he says tightly.

“While you’re in jail,” Clint adds, his voice low and dark.

Barney shrugs. “We all gotta get through it our way.” Clint throws up his hands as he stalks away from his brother’s bed, but Barney jabs a finger at his back. “You know what it’s like, Clint. You remember the stories, and you sure as _shit_ remember juvie. So you can take your superior fucking attitude and shove it up your—” 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Clint’s near-shout echoes through the mostly empty room, and Officer Carter raises his eyebrows as he glances up from his magazine. Clint ignores him—or worse, barely remembers the guard’s in the room at all—as he glares at his brother. “Do you not get how _good_ everything was going? ‘Cause your case worker was talking about having P.J. back to you at the start of the year, and—”

“Don’t bring him into this.” Clint’s brow furrows, his mouth still hanging open, but Barney just points another accusatory finger in his direction. Phil suspects that he’d rather smack his brother than simply point at him. “You wanna piss all over me—”

Clint scoffs. “Yeah, ‘cause that’s what this is.”

“—you piss on me. But you leave my baby out of this.” Clint rolls his eyes, but Barney’s whole body tightens. “Clinton, I swear to god—”

“What happened?” Both brothers whip around to stare at Phil, and he raises his hands reflexively under their accusatory glares. Clint swallows and glances away, and Barney rolls his lips together. “You don’t want to talk about the logical consequences of your actions, fine. We can save that for another day. But you need to tell us what happened.”

Barney snorts. “Like you care.”

“Would I ask if I didn’t?” Phil retorts, and the other man holds his eyes for a few seconds before he ducks and shakes his head. 

The heavy silence that settles over them only breaks when Clint sighs, but Barney keeps staring at his hands even as his brother crosses the infirmary to stand at Phil’s side. He holds himself like he’s preparing for battle, a soldier about to run out onto a battlefield, and when Phil brushes his knuckles against his husband’s wrist, Clint snorts and shoves his hands in his pockets. Hurt spikes in Phil’s chest, but he rolls his lips together and keeps quiet.

In the bed, Barney picks at broken fingernails and recent scabs. When he sighs, all the fight seeps out of his posture.

“There’s this bookie,” he finally says, his voice low and cautious. “Joe. He works out of this shitty house on the Union side of the county line. A bunch of guys use him, ‘cause he’s fair. Well, mostly.” He shakes his head slightly. “Anyway, turns out he’s stopped paying out. Owes a lot of people a lot of money. And the guys and I, we decided to pay him a visit.”

At Phil’s shoulder, Clint huffs and very nearly rolls his eyes. Barney’s expression darkens, but he only pauses long enough to grit his teeth. “It wasn’t supposed to get out of hand,” he confesses. “We were just gonna ask him for the cash if he was there, take it if he wasn’t. But he and his guys, they put up a fight.” He snorts half a laugh and gestures to his face. “And we lost pretty bad.”

“Who’s we?”

Even though Clint keeps his voice dull and absolutely even, Phil knows without a second glance that his well-worn patience is seconds from snapping. His jaw tightens reflexively, his eyes refuse to blink, and worse, his hands ball into tight fists inside his pockets. Barney purses his lips, and Clint swallows audibly. “I’m not here for your bullshit, Barney. Who are you—”

“Some guys,” Barney cuts in. For the first time since Hainey left, his expression remains blank, almost dead-eyed. “Just me and some guys.”

Clint raises his eyebrows. “Named?”

“They’re nobody you know. ‘Cause that’s what you’re asking, right? If it’s the usual suspects, your old buddies from the park?” Clint bristles, his shoulders clenching, but Barney just shakes his head. “These are other guys. Guys I know from— Doesn’t matter where, really. Just matters that I know them.”

“Well enough to steal with,” Phil points out. Barney rolls his eyes, and Phil feels his own shoulders squaring, readying for an argument. “Maybe you think we’re both idiots, but I’ve worked as a prosecutor for a long time. I don’t believe you just found your accomplices on petty criminal Craigslist.”

Barney crosses his arms. “You paint this however you want, Phil, but trust me: the going gets rough enough, even you’d steal.” He flicks his gaze up and down the length of Phil’s body, a silent assessment. “Honestly, I don’t think it’d take that much.”

Phil sucks in a sharp breath and grits his teeth at that, the anger seconds from boiling over, but next to him, Clint crosses his arms. “How tough could you possibly have it?” he challenges. Barney blinks, but his brother just pins him in place with a glare. “We’ve got your kid. We paid for your trailer while you were gone. We kept your head above water when anybody else would’ve let you drown. What’s left?”

Barney holds his brother’s gaze, but for one, breathtaking moment, Phil thinks he senses a little chip in his resolve, a crack in his armor. At least, until he snorts and glances away. “Maybe I was just bored,” he answers.

Clint throws up his hands. “Go fuck yourself,” he spits, and turns on his heel to storm out of the room.

Phil watches him go, his footfalls echoing against the bare tile, but when he casts his eyes back over at Barney, he notices another flicker, a break in the façade. He purses his lips for a second before he replies, “I don’t believe you.”

Barney barely flinches when the steel door to the infirmary slams behind his brother. “Yeah, well,” he replies with a shrug, “that part’s up to you.”

 

==

 

That night, after a frustrating half-day of work and an even more frustrating bath time with P.J., Phil nudges open the door to their home office. Clint sits on the old, threadbare couch, his head bowed and his fingers in his hair. Fanned out on the coffee table in front of him are a half-dozen case files and their associated notes, but Phil knows from the way they’re arranged that his husband abandoned them at least an hour earlier. 

Around the time he’d decided to call Wade and ask for advice, actually, and Phil tries to think of Clint’s rueful smile instead of the nervous way he’d tapped his phone against his palm before disappearing.

“Ah,” P.J. says suddenly, and Clint jerks out of his own thoughts just as the baby’s greeting breaks into a yawn. He stares at the two of them for a beat—Phil in his sweats, P.J. in his pajamas—before scrubbing his hands over his face. P.J. mimics him, his tiny fist rubbing over his eyes as he flops back against Phil’s shoulder, and somehow, Clint smiles.

“Sorry, boss. Lost track of the time.”

Phil shrugs. “You missed some quality cat-chasing, but not much else,” he replies, and this time, Clint’s tiny grin touches the corners of his eyes. “But busy docket or not, I thought you might want to say goodnight.”

“Like I’d miss that,” Clint says, and the second he opens his hands to their nephew, P.J. cranes his whole body in Clint’s direction. Like a tiny, baby-shaped plane, Phil thinks with a smile, and he treats them all to plane noises as he sweeps him into Clint’s arms. Clint beams at him, his good humor slowly returning as he stands the boy on his lap. “How’s my favorite live-in nephew, huh? Behaving for Uncle Phil?”

“Da.” P.J. slaps his hands against Clint’s cheeks, and Clint blinks at him exactly once before laughing. The baby grins back, bouncing and babbling.

“He’s telling you that his next six baths are on you,” Phil explains as he flops down next to his husband. Clint shoots him a wry look, but he just raises his hands. “I talked him down from ten, but he drives a hard bargain.”

Clint rolls his lips together even as his laugh lines crinkle. “Yeah? What do you get out of the deal?”

“Late-night diaper changes and carrot baby food duty,” Phil replies solemnly, and Clint snorts and shakes his head.

They sit in companionable silence on the couch for a while, and the longer Clint twists his face into a variety of funny faces and P.J. crows with laughter, the more the knot in Phil’s stomach starts to unravel. Because between P.J.’s babbles and bounces and Clint’s boundless, infectious grins, Phil’s finally able to forget about Barney Barton. Or maybe he releases Barney, instead of forgetting him, and allows that lead balloon of worry to float away until all he sees is a distant, fading speck.

He reaches over and threads his fingers through the hair at the back of Clint’s neck. Clint sighs, his whole body deflating slightly, and leans heavily into Phil’s shoulder. “Gonna be a late night,” he murmurs as P.J. plays with the neck of his t-shirt. “I need to have most of this ready to go first thing tomorrow.”

Phil glances at the barely organized piles on the table. “Anything I can do?”

“Not unless you can clone me.” Phil blinks, raising his eyebrows, and Clint rolls his eyes. “Not like that,” he grumbles, elbowing Phil the very second he smirks. “For work only.”

Phil shrugs. “I’m sure I could come up with some ‘tasks’ for a second Barton,” he muses, and he laughs when Clint elbows him again.

It’s only after P.J. flops down on Clint’s lap for cuddles, rather than silly games, that Clint asks, “You think he’s telling the truth?”

He keeps his voice quiet and calm, but Phil hears the tension that runs beneath, the worry that he usually hides so expertly. He shrugs. “P.J.’s only eleven months old, so unless you speak baby . . . ” Clint shifts around enough to shoot him a sharp, unimpressed look, and Phil sighs. “When it comes to your brother, I’m not sure what to think, anymore.”

Clint sighs. “Yeah, me neither,” he admits, and rests his head against Phil’s shoulder.

 

==

 

“Okay, for the record—and more importantly, before the judge rolls up and we’re _on_ the record—I am pretty sure your brother-in-law hates me in a way that defies our human vocabulary, and that is coming from a guy who once beat Nate ‘Living Dictionary’ Summers at Words With Friends.”

Phil glances away from the docket sheet hanging outside of Judge Michaels’s courtroom to raise an eyebrow. “Did you cheat?”

“On _Nate_?” Wade Wilson staggers back a step, and Phil resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Listen, Coulson, I like you, but if you spent even ten seconds looking at the man, you would know—”

“At the game.” Wade blinks at him, and Phil shrugs. “You said you beat him at Words With Friends. I just wondered—”

“Oh, yeah, totally,” Wade cuts in, waving a hand. “Are you kidding? He can spell ‘onomatopoeia’ in his sleep. Only an online dictionary can level that playing field.”

He flashes Phil a thousand-watt grin, and despite himself, Phil offers a weak smile in return. Compared to the newer, more utilitarian hallways in the judicial complex—carpet outside the courtrooms, tile everywhere else—the old, ornate marble and wood fittings in the Union County Courthouse leave him feeling just a little off balance. Every footfall echoes, every door slams a little harder than necessary, and while a few stained glass windows remain, the yellowed plastic that protects them from vandals casts an odd, eerie light down the hallway. 

Worse, he clashes horribly with Wade and his mismatched ensemble of black pants, a light blue shirt with tiny flowers on it, a greenish-black blazer, and—

“While we’re on the subject,” Wade continues, his hands curling around the worn (brown) strap of his (brown) leather bag, “why isn’t there a ‘Words With Husbands?’ It’s pretty limiting to assume that my interest in legally distinct Scrabble begins and ends with my friends.”

Phil snorts and shakes his head. “A question for the ages,” he replies, and glances back at the docket sheet.

Unlike in Suffolk County, where the city and the university bring in dozens of new cases every week, Barney’s name is only one of three on the list for morning. Phil considers texting Clint about this— _Don’t tell Steve, or he might want to transfer counties_ —but deep down, he knows the last thing Clint needs is a distraction. His Tuesday involves negotiation meetings, hearings, a motion, and a webinar on recent changes in the state’s traffic laws. Phil, on the other hand, has a single sentencing hearing at three in the afternoon.

Well, that and the dubious honor of sitting in the back at Barney’s first appearance and bond hearing.

He sighs slightly, his whole body suddenly ten times heavier than when he’d kissed Clint goodbye that morning, and finally glances back at Wade. The defense attorney hums to himself, his head bobbing as he studies cell phone. Phil almost smiles. “Thanks,” he says, and Wade jerks his head up like someone just poked him with a cattle prod. “For agreeing to be Barney’s defense attorney. I’m sure the last thing you need is to—”

“Do my actual job?” Phil frowns, but Wade shrugs him off. “Emma complains a little when we cherry-pick cases, but since I’m really the only full-time defense attorney until Darcy passes the bar—and she better pass, by the way, because we are running out of stupid administrative crap to keep her occupied—I probably would’ve landed him anyway.” 

He pauses to wave at Matt Murdock, who (unsurprisingly) walks past without glancing in their direction. Phil, however, just blinks. “Since when do you cover cases in Union County?” he asks dumbly. 

“Since Suffolk County and Union County merged into a single office?” Wade replies. Phil feels his brow tighten, his frown creasing into something deeper, and Wade sighs. “You know, this is what happens when you guys get all wrapped up in your weird District Attorney’s Office drama: you miss press releases. Big, important press releases about your new-and-improved regional legal aid office, located in a much more affordable building just over the Union County line.” He shakes his head disapprovingly. “Good news is, we picked up a bunch of pretty great civil attorneys. Like Foggy Nelson. You know Foggy? Because he’s this landlord-tenant guy, with great hair and pretty good fashion sense, and when you talk to him, you feel like—”

Standing with his assistant a few feet away, Matt Murdock sighs. “You promised to stop talking about your crush on Foggy.”

Wade levels a finger in Murdock’s direction. “You know, I’m starting to think possessiveness is not your finest feature,” he comments, and Murdock snorts before returning to the Braille-printed document in front of him. 

Wade wrinkles his nose as he turns back to Phil. “Anyway, my contract says I defend the criminally accused, and since your brother-in-law most definitely qualifies, here I am.” He holds up his hands as though placing himself on display. “And I will detail to you the handful of things he’s allowed me _to_ detail after we convince the judge that he is not a flight risk despite his three major felonies.”

“Three?” Phil croaks, but the creak of the judge’s assistant opening the heavy wooden doors to the courtroom drowns out his strangled voice.

Wade claps him on the shoulder before he ducks into the courtroom a mere step behind Murdock, but for some reason, Phil remains rooted to that very spot. He hears the word _three_ in his head like a mantra, a refrain that rattles through his brain and down through the rest of his body. Attempted robbery for the incident with the bookie, sure, and possibly battery charges for the physical altercation (because neither Clint nor his brother believed in going down without a fight), but _three_ charges?

Another observer, probably a family member, smiles politely at Phil before she also slips into the courtroom. Phil draws in a breath, straightens his suit coat, and follows.

The chipped, almost-white paint on all the old molding and woodwork reminds Phil of a hospital room or a convalescent center. Worse, worn scarlet velour covers the seats in the gallery and the jury box, and Phil’s chair squeaks audibly as he sits down. Two defendants, each of them dressed in standard-issue green sweat suits, sit in the front row next to their harried-looking lawyers.

Wade hovers in the aisle, rocking up on the balls of his feet as he waits.

Even with a guard flanking him, Barney strides through the secure door by the jury box like a noble heading off to wine and dine the king, his puffy head held high and his shoulders squared. He snorts when the guard mutters something to him, rolls his eyes when Wade waves—and stops in his tracks the second his eyes settle on Phil. For a second, they stare one another down, and Phil wonders if Barney’s breathing.

Then, his brother-in-law purses his lips, shoulders past his attorney, and flops down in the front row with the other defendants.

Wade glances over his shoulder at Phil, shrugs, and joins his client.

Phil waits until they’ve both forgotten about him to sigh.

Judge Aguilar—a humorless man with graying temples and an enormous moustache—enters the courtroom a moment later, and he calls the first case before Phil even settles back into his seat. He swiftly sets bond for the first two defendants and sends them back to their holding cells, and for a moment, Phil thinks he might be witnessing the fastest first appearance hearing in the history of mankind. The polite woman from the hallway nods to him as she ducks out of the courtroom, and he forces himself to smile as the judge shuffles his folders around.

“Only one felony on the docket today, Mister Murdock?” he asks as he unearths Barney’s file, which is at least twice as thick as the others.

Murdock nods as he stands. “That’s right, your honor, and at this time, the State call 14-462CR, _State versus Barney Barton_.”

“Who, of course, is here in person. And in custody, but also in the flesh.” The judge frowns slightly as Wade drops his bag and at least two legal pads onto the defense table, and next to him, Barney sighs. “And he also appears with counsel, your honor. Wade Wilson, from—”

“The new-and-improved regional legal aid offices, I know,” the judge finishes with a small shake of his head. “I hope Miss Frost and her legislative overlords are working on a better name.”

“I suggested we call it either the Unfolk or the Suffion Regional Office, but so far, no dice.” The judge’s mouth twitches into half a smile, and Wade flashes him an easy grin. “Judge, my client waives a formal reading of the charges and pleads a very adamant not guilty to all three of them.”

Judge Aguilar nods. “Noted. The State on bond?”

Murdock runs his fingers along one of the pages in front of him, and for a moment, the only sound in the courtroom is the steady percussion of his assistant typing up a page of notes. When she stops, heavy silence follows. “As the court is aware,” Murdock finally says, “Mister Barton was charged with attempted aggravated robbery and battery after he and several other men crossed county lines to attack someone in his home. When police finally tracked Mister Barton down, they found him in a car with over a thousand dollars of merchandise that traced back to a recent robbery of an electronics store. So far, we’ve only charged him with theft of those goods, but we’re still investigating and might still charge him for the underlying robbery.”

A chill rushes through Phil, and gooseflesh rises on his arms as he whips around to stare at Barney. His brother-in-law lowers his head, his fingernails tracing invisible hatch marks on the table top, and remains absolutely still.

Felony-level theft and the robbery of an electronics store, Phil thinks, and the words rumble through him like distant thunder. Weeks of good behavior, thrown to the wind, and all because—

“Mister Barton doesn’t live in this county,” Murdock continues, “and while he has family in Suffolk County, he also has a long criminal history. We’re still looking for some of his coconspirators, and I don’t trust that he won’t either run or help them hide.” He pauses for a moment, his face softening. “And even though I don’t want to bring this up—”

At defense table, Wade’s shoulders tighten.

“—he is involved in a child welfare case in Suffolk County that alleges he disappeared without a trace for weeks.”

Barney jerks like someone’s stung him, his whole body whipping around in Murdock’s direction, and even in the back of the courtroom, Phil sees the way he tightens his hands into white-knuckled fists. Murdock squares his shoulders, obviously aware of the sudden change in tension, and the only thing that stops Barney from flying across the well of the courtroom is Wade planting a hand on his shoulder and physically pushing him back. 

“Below the belt, Murdock,” he says as the deputy wraps a meaty hand around Barney’s arm and forces him down into his chair. “Ask for remand or don’t ask for remand, but bringing a guy’s kid into it just because you think he’s a _di_ —”

“That’s enough, Mister Wilson,” Judge Aguilar breaks in. Wade’s jaw flexes, and he only exhales when the judge holds up a hand. “And for the record, you’re right. Unless any of Mister Barton’s crimes are against a child—”

“And they’re absolutely, positively not,” Wade says immediately.

“—the child welfare case is irrelevant.” Murdock nods reluctantly, his posture still tightly guarded. The judge glances over at where Barney’s half-slumped in an uncomfortable vinyl chair. “Do you have anything to add, Mister Barton?”

Barney rolls his swollen lips together before he shakes his head.

“Unfortunately for you, the State raised a lot of the concerns I already had about you returning for trial, especially when I consider your long criminal history and the fact that some of your companions from the other night are still missing in action. And,” the judge adds, his gaze drifting over to Phil, “I certainly don’t want to force your family into a situation where they pay your bond and never see you again. You’re remanded to the Union County Jail for the time being. You and Mister Wilson can always move for a bond reduction once the dust settles.”

Wade springs up out of his seat like a jack-in-the-box. “We will, your honor,” he immediately says, and Phil swears the judge almost smiles. “Because the second the State finishes up their robbery investigation, they’ll realize they’re keeping my client locked up based on, like, insane paranoia, and not facts.”

Judge Aguilar smiles. “I hope for your client’s sake that you’re right,” he replies. “Court’s adjourned.”

Phil stands automatically, his squeaky chair screaming into the relative silence of the courtroom, but somehow, his knees feel like jelly. He tries imagining the Barney that Murdock described—a guileless thief who fled from one crime while carrying the fruits of another—but the more he thinks about it, the more he doubts that chain of events. Speckled past or not, Barney is still his brother-in-law and, more importantly, still a Barton: fiercely loyal, relentlessly clever, frustratingly stubborn, and filled to bursting with good intentions. A little over two years ago, he’d tried to protect his mostly estranged brother by pouring out his soul to Loki Laufeyson; a little over two months ago, he’d left his baby with family in order to keep him safe from harm.

Barney screws up, Phil thinks, but he never intends the wake of destruction that follows.

Robbery, battery, and theft just don’t fit with the man Phil knows.

“I’m authorized to tell you exactly three things, and the first one is that I’m a fucking nutjob moron who probably cheated on the bar exam.” Phil jerks out of his own thoughts to discover Wade standing in front of him, his hands absently clutching the strap to his bag. They stare at each other for a moment before Wade shrugs. “And that’s a direct quote, by the way. Wrote it on my hand and everything.”

He holds up his right hand, and Phil actually snorts when he realizes that, yes, he _did_ write down Barney’s insult. Or rather, he wrote something down; Wade’s handwriting is just bad enough that Phil’s not sure he (or anyone living) can actually read it. 

“What about the other two things?” Phil asks.

“That he doesn’t want you and Clint hovering over this case the whole time and that it’s not as bad as you probably think it is.”

Phil raises an eyebrow. “It’s not?” 

“Not according to him.” Phil sighs almost involuntarily, and Wade shakes his head slightly. “Look, and at the risk of toeing a really weird ethical line I usually avoid like a kid playing hot potato, I seriously don’t know what’s going on with your brother-in-law. Because yesterday, when I called the jail, we talked like old friends, and I thought it was the beginning of a _Casablanca_ -style beautiful friendship. But by the time I visited him this morning? He’d forgotten how polysyllabic words work.”

Phil scrubs a hand over his face. “That sounds like Barney.”

Wade shrugs. “Sure, okay, but trust me when I say that it doesn’t sound like a criminal defendant.” Phil blinks at that—and, more importantly, at the unflinching way that Wade holds his gaze. Some vague, nameless unease coils in his stomach as the defense attorney tucks his hands in his back pockets. “I know I’m still kind of new at this whole ‘serious criminal defense attorney’ thing,” he continues with another tiny shrug, “but if I’ve learned one thing in the last couple years, it’s that guys who’ve been around the block as many times as Barney are a whole lot louder about this kind of thing. Especially when, no offense, they believe they’re totally innocent.”

Phil frowns slightly. “Why would his innocence offend me?”

“I meant to say ‘no offense’ about the whole ‘been around the block’ thing. Words just got jumbled up in my head.” Phil almost smiles, his mouth twitching without his permission, and Wade grins before he reaches over to plant a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll keep trying. Not because it’s my job—which it is, despite the fact you had no idea my office merged with another one—but because it’s also, you know, you guys.”

Phil’s stomach rolls, almost like he’s seasick, but he still manages to nod weakly. “Thanks, Wade.”

“Don’t thank me, thank the newly founded Unfolk Regional Legal Aid Office,” Wade replies merrily, and despite himself, Phil actually laughs.

 

==

 

Two hours later, Clint asks, “How’d it go?”

He’s a sight for sore eyes in his gray suit and a shirt that hovers right on the border between pink and white, and even after that morning’s stress, Phil smiles. This version of Clint—the well-kept, professional, polished attorney—always reminds Phil of those first heady days of their relationship, days when brushing up against Clint in the hallway had felt like a monumental gift. Phil prefers Clint in comfortable jeans and a ratty t-shirt, sprawled out on their couch on a lazy Saturday afternoon, but that’s not the Clint he first fell in love with.

“Boss?” Clint says, his voice gentler this time, and when Phil blinks, the daydream breaks. Because when he really looks at his husband—when he strips away his calm, composed façade—he notices all the cracks and creases, all the exhaustion that lives deep within his bones. All at once, he remembers that they’re sharing the sleepless nights and the heart-stopping worry, and that for every grin Clint flashes at P.J., there’s a scowl or a sigh he shares with no one.

Phil’s heart clenches. “You done with your hearings for the day?” he asks.

Clint shrugs. “Pretrial conference with Sif got bumped to four, so pretty much. Why?”

Phil studies him for a moment—the crinkles around his eyes, the tiny furrows in his brow, the shadows under his eyes—before he pulls off his glasses and nods to the chair across from his desk. “You’d better sit down.”

 

==

 

A week later, Jasper Sitwell jabs a stuffed turtle in Phil’s direction and says, “Stop looking at him like that.”

Phil raises his eyebrows. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replies innocently.

“Yes, you do. Worse, you already have one at home. You can’t steal ours, too.”

As if on cue, Max yawns and stretches, his tiny arms flailing slightly. He’s three weeks old tomorrow, all chubby red-brown cheeks and ridiculous dark hair, and when he smacks his lips, Phil swears he smiles. He rocks the baby for a moment before replying, “In case you’ve forgotten, ours is a rental.”

Next to him, Maria snorts and swings her feet up onto the coffee table. “You want to trade?”

“You’re not protesting?”

She shrugs. “When he’s not sleeping, he’s crying, eating, or throwing up. No new parent on the planet minds swapping _that_ out for a few hours.”

Jasper frowns and crosses his arms over the stuffed turtle like a sulking child. “Maybe I mind.”

Maria flicks him a dark and very pointed look. “Remember that discussion about how you’re not allowed to complain when you’re not the living food source?” she asks.

He rolls his lips together. “You know, I think the cheese and crackers are calling,” he says suddenly, and Phil waits until he retreats to snicker. 

The noise apparently upsets Max, who kicks out his legs and releases a high, whiny sound, and Maria chuckles as she smoothes his hair. “Just teaching your dad a valuable lesson,” she promises, leaning down to kiss his forehead. “Nothing to worry about.”

“One Sitwell down, another to go.”

She snorts and rolls her eyes. “Like my baby’s not already under my thumb,” she replies, and he grins as she bops Max on his tiny nose.

Even after nearly ten years together—as coworkers, yes, but also as friends and, according to Clint, as weird work spouses—Phil’s still always a little surprised by Maria’s easy smile. Add in sweatpants, a tank top, and actual fuzzy slippers, and she reminds him of a totally different person.

At least, until she narrows her eyes. “What?”

He raises a hand. “Nothing,” he promises, and she wrinkles her nose at him as she reaches for her tea.

After the last week of stress, swearing, and sentencing hearings (because Phil covered what feels like six dozen of the damn things), an evening on Maria’s couch feels like a gift, and Phil sighs as he hikes Max up a little higher. He’d spent a long time debating Jasper’s invitation—half because Maria hadn’t actually called him, and half because of the Barney-shaped storm cloud that still hovers over their heads—but in the end, Clint’d rolled his eyes. “You don’t cuddle that baby, you end up on Maria’s shit-list,” he’d said as he’d refilled P.J.’s bowl of cheerios. “You really wanna face the wrath of _that_ woman scorned?”

Phil’d snorted. “Fury,” he’d corrected.

Clint’d frowned. “What about him?”

“I mean, it’s fury, not—” The corner of Clint’s mouth had quirked into a tiny smirk, and Phil’d rolled his eyes. “That’s it. You’re officially banned from hanging out with Tony until further notice.”

Clint’d grinned. “Good luck separating the kid from his best friend,” he’d said, and P.J.—apparently sensing his place in the conversation—had banged his fists on his tray and squealed.

When Phil’d finally admitted defeat, both of his Barton boys had crowded in close for goodbye kisses. And for a second, when Clint’d broken their kiss to press his nose against Phil’s cheek, he’d believed whole-heartedly that everything’d end up okay.

Then, they’d stepped apart, and the circles under Clint’s eyes had told a different story.

“Home soon,” he’d promised, and kissed his husband one more time before ducking out the door.

“Shit, I think I preferred your baby-stealing face,” Jasper comments as he walks back into the living room. Maria scowls and flings a spit-up rag at him, but he dodges it expertly. “What? You look at Phil and tell me he’s not ten seconds away from asking to borrow your copy of _The Bell Jar_.”

She crosses her arms. “I’m not a moody sixteen-year-old.”

“No, you’re a moody thirty-something, and that’s about ten times worse.” She feigns kicking him in the knee as he drops off the plate of cheese and crackers, but he ignores her as he glances at Phil. “You want to talk about it?”

Phil raises his eyebrows. “You’re asking instead of demanding?” 

“According to my better half, obnoxious fucking prying only lands you on the couch. Besides, you’re a grown man. You’re allowed to keep secrets.” Jasper shrugs as he flops down in the nearest chair. “But if you’re looking to unburden your soul—”

“Never say ‘unburden your soul’ again,” Maria grumbles.

“—then we’re your people.”

Phil glances over at Maria, who shrugs noncommittally, and for a moment, he rolls his lips together. In his arms, Max shifts and smacks his lips before settling, caught somewhere in a strange baby-sized dream that none of them can really imagine. He thinks of P.J. the night before, fussing in the middle of the night without ever waking up, and the sore spot in the middle of his chest twinges.

Clint’d climbed out of bed to check on their nephew and ended up sleeping in the guest room, baby at his side.

Like a father would, Phil thinks, and sighs.

“How much of the office gossip about Barney have you heard?” he finally asks. Jasper raises his eyebrows, his face the very picture of mock innocence, and next to him, Maria hides her mouth behind her mug. He rolls his eyes. “I know you’re both still checking your e-mail. In fact, one of you critiqued two of my motions in the last week.”

“In my defense,” Maria retorts, “babies sleep a lot.”

“Except at night, when they refuse to close their eyes for more than ten minutes at a time.” Phil frowns slightly, and Jasper shakes his head. “Next time, we’ll borrow your method and grab one fully-formed.”

“Except there will never be a next time,” Maria says seriously, and Jasper raises his hands in obvious defeat.

Phil snorts slightly and glances back down at Max. “But fully-formed babies read your emotions enough to know that something’s wrong. Or, in our case, to know their uncle isn’t sleeping and keeps disappearing on long runs to work his anger out.” Maria stills as she reaches for a cracker, and he shakes his head. “It’s been a long week.”

“Because of Barney’s new criminal case?” she asks.

“And the thousand things that stem from it, yeah.” Jasper scoots forward, his elbows on his thighs, and Phil resists the urge to scrub a hand over his second day of stubble. “Barney won’t talk to Wade,” he explains. “Not just about the criminal case, but about anything. He refuses to give up his coconspirators or to tell Wade where Ally’s hiding out.”

Jasper cocks his head slightly. “I thought the kid’s mom was in the wind.”

“That’s what we thought, too, but Wade thinks Barney knows more than he’s telling.” Phil leans back on the couch, bouncing Max slightly when he grumbles about the change in position. “The child welfare case is on hold until Barney’s out of jail,” he continues, “and Clint— I don’t blame him, necessarily, but he feels like this whole thing is a personal attack. Another big middle finger from the brother who never cared.”

Maria studies him, her expression soft. “And what do you think?”

“I—” Phil starts, but his voice catches in the back of his throat. His eyes drift back down to the sleeping baby, and for a split second, he imagines his nephew as a newborn, tiny and peaceful. He shakes the thought away before it solidifies. “I think there’s more going on than meets the eye,” he finally admits. “Wheels within wheels, and all of them revolving around a hidden spoke that Barney won’t let us see. But knowing that doesn’t change the fact that Clint can’t sleep, or that P.J. senses his bad mood every time he walks through the door.”

He sighs and strokes his fingers along Max’s tiny arm until Maria touches his wrist. “Have you talked to him?” she asks quietly.

He snorts. “And say what? Either way, we’re still in the middle of this—”

“Shit show?” Jasper suggests.

Phil nearly smiles. “Exactly,” he says, and Jasper treats him to a tiny, crooked grin. “And Barney’s still missing his son’s milestones—including his birthday, next week—while we pick up the pieces and try to love him without falling all the way in love.”

He hears the last few words before he processes them, an out-of-body experience that feels slightly like jolting awake from an accidental nap, but for the first few seconds, both of his friends stay suspiciously silent. They watch him, instead, Maria with her mug inches from her mouth and Jasper with his eyebrows raised, and when Phil exhales, his shoulders slump. “He’s not our son,” he says for what feels like the thousandth time, “but the longer he’s with us, the more the line . . . blurs.”

Next to him, Maria’s mouth twitches. “Just lost a bet on whether you’d ever admit it, you know,” she says blandly.

He rolls his eyes. “Please don’t tell me the terms,” he replies, and Jasper chokes on air.

Phil forces a weak smile and ducks his head, and he only realizes that Jasper’s abandoned his armchair when he bends down to scoop Max up out of his arms. “Time to check for stink bombs,” he says quietly, but Phil knows from the pointed look he exchanges with Maria that he’s just removing the distraction. 

And true to his prediction, Maria waits until Jasper closes the nursery door to swing her legs off the coffee table. She twists fully to Phil, her hand still on his arm, and tilts her head to catch his eyes. “Here’s what you’re going to do,” she says seriously.

He huffs out a laugh. “Bossing me around, are you?”

“Right now, in this situation? Absolutely.” He rolls his eyes, but somehow, Maria still pins him with her gaze. “First and foremost, you’re going to stop pretending that you can fix this.”

“Maria—”

“No, Phil, you need to listen,” she says sharply, and he snaps his jaw shut. “Despite all the things I genuinely love about you, your biggest flaw is that you think you’re some kind of super-human. Always able to sweep in, right all the wrongs, leave the world better than when you started on your self-appointed mission.” He drops his eyes to his lap, and she squeezes his wrist. “You can’t fix this situation. At least, not on your own. And the harder you try, the more likely you are to make it worse.”

He very nearly chuckles. “I’m not sure how that’s possible,” he murmurs.

“Ask the husband you’re not talking to.” He glances up for the express purpose of glaring at her, and she raises her hands. “You two almost broke up last summer because you couldn’t talk about your feelings, no babies or felonious brothers-in-law need apply. There’s no way you can survive that nightmare a second time.”

Sighing, Phil scrubs a hand over his face. “Fine,” he finally says. “No more single-handed heroism. What else?”

“Throw that baby a birthday party.” He blinks at her, frowning, and she rolls her eyes. “You’re living in this weird suspended animation where you pretend you’re not his parents, but guess what? Right now, you’re all the family he’s got, and he’s about to turn one. Buy some party hats and go to town.”

“Because he’ll remember his first birthday,” Phil mutters.

“No, because _you_ need this as much as he does.” He glances away again, his chest and throat suddenly tight, and Maria squeezes his arm a second time. “You’re not his parents,” she admits quietly, “but you’re allowed to love him. Right now, more than anything, he needs you to love him. Stop fighting that.”

Something about the genuine kindness in her tone threatens to choke him, and he swallows around the thick feeling in the back of his throat. For more than two months, he’s lived a balancing act, this tight-rope routine between blindly loving P.J. Barton and holding him at arm’s length. And worse, every time he thinks he’s perfectly even—that he’s mastered the challenge, once and for all—P.J. smiles at him, or spills baby oatmeal in his own hair, or naps in a sun spot next to the cat, and Phil starts falling all over again.

He’s ten seconds from crashing down, and he knows it. And the second he hits the bottom, he knows he’ll never be able to climb back up and start the act all over again.

He draws in a deep breath and forces a smile long before he dares to meet Maria’s eyes. “Your baby’s turned you soft,” he says, and hopes his voice sounds lighter than it feels.

Maria shrugs. “There are worse things,” she replies, and threads their fingers together.

 

==

 

The next morning, Phil wakes to a text message from Maria reading simply, _Not a superhero_. He stares at it for a long moment, his vision still sleep-blurred, and listens to the sound of Clint in the shower.

_You must really be bored on your maternity leave_ , he finally replies.

_Doesn’t change the fact that you can’t fix it_ , Maria reminds him, and he rolls his eyes as he climbs out of bed.

But he forces himself to lock his worries away, to bar them up in a cell similar to the one Barney’s now living in, and Clint smiles when Phil climbs into the shower with him. They share sodden, steamy kisses until P.J. finally starts fussing, and Clint sighs as he rests his head on Phil’s shoulder. “Remember sex?” he asks. “‘Cause I don’t.”

“Oh, I certainly think you remember,” Phil replies with a smirk, and Clint shivers when Phil palms his ass.

They fall easily into their normal morning routine, swapping P.J. between them like a chubby football and placating him with kisses every time he protests, but for the first time in what feels like a decade, Barney’s name never enters the conversation. He looms like an elephant in the room—his next visit with P.J., one he’ll miss thanks to his newfound incarceration, is still circled on their kitchen calendar—but they leave him there, a malevolent presence not worth mentioning. Like Voldemort, Phil thinks at one point, and he snorts into his coffee.

Clint raises an eyebrow. “You losing it?” he asks.

Phil shrugs. “Just thinking about _Harry Potter_ ,” he admits, and Clint pulls a face as he hands P.J. another banana slice.

At work, Phil loses about fifteen minutes to reviewing all his old e-mails about Barney—messages to and from Melinda, Skye, Wagner, and Clint—before dumping them all into a separate Outlook folder and archiving it. He transfers the date for Barney’s next court hearing into his paper calendar and deletes the event from his phone. He even considers texting Wade about his new noninterference policy, but he decides that might be the one bridge too far.

By the time he finishes his strange sort of spring cleaning, his heart feels lighter.

And heavier, he realizes a moment later, when his eyes drift to the picture of Clint and P.J. that’s pinned above his office phone. Like he’s betraying his family by caring for them.

He pushes down the heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach to open an e-mail to Steve and Bucky. _How would you feel about taking five minutes out of your housewarming for P.J.’s first birthday?_

He’s barely uncapped a pen when Steve’s reply chimes through. _There’s no way we’re letting you limit it to five minutes_ , the e-mail reads, and Phil almost laughs aloud. _We’ll talk about this at lunch_.

_In excruciating detail, probably_ , Bucky replies a moment later, winking emoticon and all.

After work—and yes, after an excruciatingly detailed conversation about first birthdays and baby-sized party hats—Phil fixes a quick dinner while Clint entertains P.J. Or rather, while Clint flops like a starfish in the middle of the living room rug and allows their nephew to climb all over him. P.J. babbles happily the whole time, engaged in a conversation only he understands, and he waves when Phil pops his head into the living room to check on them.

“Teaching him climbing skills,” Clint defends the second time. “Gotta catch him up to— _ow_ —the other babies at the state-subsidized daycare.”

“Ba-bah,” P.J agrees seriously, and Clint grunts as their nephew knees him in the gut. 

“You’re hardly a baby at this point,” Phil points out, and P.J. cocks his head at him for a few seconds before flopping over to head-butt Clint in the sternum.

After dinner, they sit out on the front stoop, P.J. bouncing on the balls of his feet as he points out every firefly that flutters up out of the grass. Twice, he releases Phil’s leg and teeters dangerously without his safety net, and Phil barely catches him each time.

Clint snorts and shakes his head. “When he walks, we’re in trouble.”

Phil shrugs. “I’ve heard good things about baby leashes,” he replies, and Clint knocks their shoulders together even as he grins.

Later, once P.J.’s asleep and Clint’s finishing his notes for an upcoming motions hearing, Phil digs his phone out of his pocket. _I’m not saying you’re right_ , he texts Maria, _but I appreciate the advice_.

_I’m bronzing this text and hanging it on my office wall_ , she replies a few minutes later, and Phil chuckles as he ditches his phone.

Wednesday mirrors Tuesday, with no mentions of Barney and no impending storm clouds. Better yet, Thursday follows right along behind them, and Phil starts to believe the fog has lifted.

At least, until he walks out onto the patio after putting P.J. to bed and discovers Clint with his head bowed.

His husband barely glances at him as he pads across the uneven concrete, and even when he forces a smile, his expression stays distant. He taps his phone against his palm a few times, his lips rolled together into a tight line, and Phil feels the tight knot of worry ball up in his stomach again. He draws in a breath, swallows, and waits.

Eventually, Clint shakes his head.

“Wade called,” he says, his voice a murmur in the relative dark. “Said the cops picked up one of the other guys from the robbery. Low-level asshole, rap sheet as long as my arm.”

“And?” Phil asks.

Clint huffs bitterly. “And the guy’s already talking. Rolling on Barney, ‘cause apparently, he knows how to cover his ass.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “Said something about Barney needing cash. Wade’s still piecing together the details.”

He shakes his head again, harder this time, and Phil watches him for a moment before reaching out to touch his leg. Clint flinches, so caught up in his own thoughts that he almost draws away—but a second later, he exhales, his shoulders slumping. More than once, his throat bobs, but he stays silent.

Phil waits for what feels like hours before he asks, “You think this is about Ally?”

Clint rolls his eyes. “Right now, I think I don’t give a fuck,” he retorts, and stares out into the dark.

 

==

 

“We keep meeting like this, A.C., and people’ll talk.”

In the park across from the judicial complex, the August sun burns white-hot, and Phil squints into the glare to discover Skye Carson waiting for him at a picnic table. Even with one earbud in and a half-finished Frappuccino sweating on the bench next to her, there’s something razor sharp about her manner.

Phil frowns slightly. “A.C.?” he asks.

She shrugs. “Assistant District Attorney Coulson is kind of a mouthful. I figured you needed a nickname. Sort of like a secret agent, you know?”

She winks at him over the rim of her sunglasses, and he snorts as he shakes his head. “Technically,” he says, “I’m the Chief Assistant District Attorney.”

“Yeah, except in my world, ‘C.C.’ is a way to send an e-mail. Plus, A.C. sounds a lot cooler.”

“Might be the first time I’ve ever qualified as cool,” Phil replies lightly, and Skye almost chokes on her drink.

They watch one another for a moment, silent in the relative peace of the park, and for a moment, Phil almost turns and walks away. In all honesty, he’d developed cold feet the very moment he’d e-mailed Skye the night before, and something deep inside him still feels itchy and uncertain. Like he’s breaking a promise, he thinks, but he’s not sure who he promised in the first place.

Not Maria, really. Maybe just himself.

Skye raises her eyebrows expectantly, and Phil sighs. “I need your help again,” he finally admits.

She huffs out a half a laugh. “Yeah, because that went spectacularly well the last time,” she reminds him. “Didn’t your brother-in-law call me a bimbo?”

“To be fair, that’s almost a compliment where Barney’s involved.” She rolls her eyes, but when she flips her hair back over her shoulder, Phil thinks he spots some uncertainty hidden deep in her expression. He sits down next to her. “No phone number this time,” he promises, “and nothing that’ll land either of us in hot water. I just need to know if you can find a woman named Allison Henderson.”

Skye purses her lips, and for a moment, her eyes trace Phil’s face. “Because I don’t know where you fall on the Kinsey scale, I feel like I need to ask whether _this_ one’s your ex.”

He almost laughs. “You’re really hoping to uncover something dramatic, aren’t you?”

“According to May and Fitz, the district attorney’s office is practically a bad soap opera. Can’t blame a girl for wanting in on that action.” He finally chuckles, but she just digs the toe of her shoe into the dirt. “She’s the mom, right?” she asks, glancing at him. “Of the baby that your brother-in-law dumped on you.”

“Yeah.” Her head bobs, and he watches for a moment as she tangles her headphone cord around her fingers. “Barney, he made a series of really dumb decisions,” he says after another few seconds. “He won’t tell anybody who he worked with, or why. And given that this all started because Ally disappeared, I can’t help thinking—”

“That he’s protecting her instead of his baby.” Phil purses his lips at that, but Skye just shakes her head. “No offense to your brother-in-law, but the more you tell me about this guy, the more it sounds like you should just keep his baby. At least then, he wouldn’t be abandoned at the drop of a hat, you know?”

Their eyes meet for a split second before Phil glances out across the street. “I know,” he admits, and leaves the conversation at that.


	10. Controlling Everyone Else's Happiness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Phil is reminded that he can’t carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. But whether he can offload that weight so late in the game is a whole other question.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The saga of Melinda May and why she and Nick left the attorney general’s office can be found in Duty of Candor.
> 
> Yes, I cannibalized some characters from another series. Saranoh first gave me the idea. I just really want Bill and Laura to be happy together, okay? They’re just Bob and Laura, here.
> 
> Thanks as always to my beta-readers, Jen and saranoh. Especially since their comments often involve commentary on Word's weird spell-check quirks. (Is it smoothes or smooths? The world may never know.)

“And _this_ room,” Dot continues, pushing loose hair out of her face, “is for my brother. And my dads said we can paint the walls any color of blue I want, except the electric kind.”

“Even if you don’t end up with a brother,” Bucky points out. Dot wrinkles her nose, but her father just crosses his arms over his chest and raises his eyebrows. “What do we keep telling you?”

Dot heaves a sigh. “That you can’t pick what kind of baby you get.” Phil almost smiles at her tone—after all, he’s frequently heard the same sort of verbal eye roll from Kate—until she cranes her neck up at her dad. “But last year, I asked Santa for a brother, and his letter said that if I wanted, he’d try really hard to get me one. _And_ ,” she stresses, “when I’m in Sunday school and Riley says we need to do prayer time, I always ask God for a brother.”

Standing a few feet behind Phil, Sam Wilson chokes on his beer.

“And since Daddy says that God listens to good people’s prayers and answers them in special ways,” Dot finishes, “I’m going to have a brother.”

Bucky rolls his lips together, his neck tensing, and for a moment, Phil wonders whether he’s breathing. Before he asks, however, Sam wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and steps forward. “Flawless logic, short stack,” he praises, and Dot immediately replies with a gap-toothed grin. “Now, how about you show me that bathroom you wanna paint Twilight Sparkle purple?”

Dot giggles and half-hides her face against the door. “I never told you about Twilight Sparkle.”

“Nah, but Riley let me in on your secret.” Sam holds out a hand. “You gonna show it off, or what?”

She steals a quick glance at Bucky, who shrugs. “He’s not asking me.”

Dot leans her weight against the door, swaying slightly, before she nods. “Only because you asked nice.”

“Well, lucky my mama raised me with manners, then,” Sam replies, and Dot blushes bright red as she grabs Sam’s hand in a death-grip.

Bucky waits until they disappear into the bathroom to slump against the nearest wall. “First crush on an adult, and she picks the guy who dates her Sunday school teacher,” he complains.

Phil shrugs. “Had to start somewhere,” he points out, and Bucky huffs out a laugh.

Steve and Bucky’s brand-new house, a green-painted two-story on a quiet corner, reminds Phil a little of the homes in his home town, and he admires the way the sun spreads across the hardwood floor in the future nursery. As a teenager and young adult, he’d always imagined a home like this one, with huge, sunny rooms and a long flight of stairs for his children to thunder down. Like his parents’ house, he thinks, or Sam’s sprawling farmhouse.

He shakes his head to clear away those thoughts—thoughts belonging to a long-past version of himself—but when he glances back at Bucky, he discovers that the other man studying him with careful, piercing eyes. 

“My thoughts cost more than a penny,” he warns.

Bucky pushes away from the wall. “Not my place to ask for them,” he replies as he closes the door. “Just thought I’d remind you that we’re around to talk, if you’re interested.”

“I’m hearing that more and more lately.”

“Probably because you need to.” Phil snorts as he turns back toward the stairs, but Bucky stops him by placing a hand on his upper arm. “I know how you think,” he says. “You need to go it alone. Be everything to everybody, or at least to Clint and P.J.” Phil rolls his lips together, and Bucky shrugs. “That’s a lot of weight to lug around, especially when you’re surrounded by people still figuring out how to be parents to their kids.”

“Parenting is the least of our worries,” Phil admits.

“Maybe. But layer that on top of whatever’s going on with your brother-in-law and your normal work load, and I’m surprised you can drag yourself out of bed in the morning. And that,” he adds with a tiny smirk, “is from a guy whose husband physically pushes him out of the bed when the alarm goes off.”

The corner of Phil’s mouth kicks up into a grin. “According to Nick, you never really shake the waking up on a dime you learn in the service.”

Bucky snorts. “Fury didn’t transition straight from new civilian to new parent,” he retorts, and Phil actually laughs as they head down the stairs.

Unlike the second floor, which consists primarily of half-unpacked boxes and random splotches of tester paint colors on the wall, Steve and Bucky’s front hall and living room are perfectly staged for guests—and draped in a ridiculous array of streamers. Phil brushes a few out of the way as he trails Bucky into the kitchen, where the enormous _HAPPY BIRTHDAY P.J._ banner sways above the sliding door. He smiles and shakes his head as he spots it again, that giant blue-and-white reminder of his friends’ kindness—and Bucky grins as he grabs another beer.

“Remind me to threaten whoever is responsible for the decorations,” Phil says.

Bucky raises his hands. “I’ve been instructed to plead the fifth to anybody who asks.”

“Meaning you’d incriminate yourself if you answered?”

“Either that or violate spousal immunity, and my shoulder can’t take sleeping on the couch.” Phil rolls his eyes, more at the bad legal joke than his friend’s insistence on plausible deniability, and Bucky grins as he swigs his beer. Outside, a radio advertisement transitions back to actual music, and Phil squints out the door into the bright afternoon sun. The light transforms his friends into dark shapes—shadows, really—but there’s no mistaking the shape of Clint’s shoulders or the way he tosses his head back when he laughs.

He studies the silhouette for another moment before he glances back over his shoulder. “How’d you know?”

Bucky stops drowning his carrots in ranch dressing and frowns. “Know what?”

“My tendency to try and be everything to everyone in times of crisis.”

“Oh, that?” Bucky asks, and his mouth tips into a grin even as he shrugs. “It’s mostly because I married a guy just like you.”

Phil snorts. “And now I know your opinion is not to be trusted,” he replies dryly, and Bucky rolls his eyes as he waves Phil out the door.

Outside, the air smells like charcoal and fresh-cut grass, classic signs of the summer, and Phil stands on the patio as his eyes adjust to the glare. The Banner-Stark children, Fury children, and Riley-the-Sunday-school-teacher sit together at one of the picnic tables, the blue balloons bobbing around them as Riley tells a story that leaves all six kids wheezing. Nearby, in a circle of folding lawn chairs, Jasper passes a napping Max off to Jane. She grins and smoothes down his messy hair, and Thor admires his wife for all of ten seconds before he returns to corralling the newly walking Astrid. Peggy, Pepper, and Maria lounge in the other chairs, and Pepper tilts her head up to smile as Natasha delivers her a fresh drink.

“Drink-refreshing is the gateway drug to marriage!” Tony warns from where he’s raiding the snack table.

Natasha flips him off over her shoulder as she heads toward where Steve, Bruce, and Clint are chatting.

Phil steps off the patio to join them—to enjoy his husband’s company for the first time since they’d arrived at the party—but a delighted squeal cuts him off at the pass. “Gah!” P.J. announces, and Darcy almost stumbles as she fights to keep him in her arms. “Da!”

“Wow, okay, I get it, hang on,” Darcy informs him, and both Phil and P.J. grin as she airplane-flies him across the patio and into Phil’s grip. “I swear, he liked me up until about ten seconds ago, but the second he spots you—”

“ _Baa_ da,” P.J. babbles emphatically, and he flops against Phil’s shoulder the second Phil raises eyebrows at him. His face is smeared in something—maybe dirt, maybe a treat from the snack table—and his pants are grass-stained.

A typical Barton, really, Phil thinks, and he tweaks the baby’s nose.

“I thought you swore off all babies except Astrid,” he comments a second later, and Darcy frowns around the neck of her beer bottle. “Every time the rest of us talked about, what’d you call it? The ‘shocking reality of Maria’s spawn?’”

Darcy shrugs. “Sounds about right.”

“You crossed yourself and asked us to change the subject. You make another exception to your rule?”

“Not until this one ate the crescent roll off my pig-in-the-blanket,” she admits. “Now, I’m thinking about stealing him on the days Astrid’s with her uncle.”

P.J. squirms when she tickles his side and immediately hides his face in Phil’s shirt. Playing shy, Phil realizes, because the baby glances back at Darcy the second she stops paying attention to him. Phil chuckles. “You should know you’re at the end of a pretty long ‘steal the baby’ line.”

“Not if the first seventeen people are Clint.” His smile falls away as he purses his lips, but Darcy just rolls her eyes. “I worked for the guy for two years and through two separate personal-life crises. I think I can spot when he’s a little in love with a baby.” Phil nods unevenly (and, he suspects, unconvincingly), and she frowns. “What? Did I shove my foot in my mouth again? Because studying for the bar kind of turned me into a hermit, and—”

“You’re fine,” Phil promises, but he feels the full weight of her gaze as she studies her face. He sighs slightly, glancing out across the yard. “I just forgot that you’ve missed most of the latest developments.”

“Like Barney being locked up on a bunch of new charges?” He blinks as he whips his head back toward her, but Darcy shrugs lightly. “Wade talks.”

“And you’re allowed to listen?” he asks.

“Right now, I’m pretty much a glorified file clerk until the bar results are released. Kate Bishop handles more sensitive information than I do, and she’s a former defendant.” He almost smiles at that, never mind the way she nonchalantly swigs her beer. “But seriously,” she presses after she swallows, “I don’t know anything the rest of your office hasn’t already spread through panicked text-messages: Barney popped back up, has a new case—”

“Two.” She stops short, her jaw snapping shut, and Phil sighs. “His coconspirators implicated him in a second robbery. Something about an electronics store. Murdock charged him at the end of last week.”

“Shit,” Darcy murmurs.

“That’s putting it mildly, but yes.” She worries her lower lip between her teeth, and Phil shakes his head. “At least four felonies,” he continues quietly, “and backed by a laundry-list of people who’ll sell him up the river while he keeps his mouth shut. Add in the stalled child welfare case, and it’s just . . . ”

“A mess?” she supplies when he trails off, and he snorts even as he nods. For a moment, he scans the yard again, ticking off familiar faces the way an elementary school teacher counts students during a fire drill: Nick and Melinda, Clint, the rest of the other attorneys from the office, their trial assistants, the interns, Steve and Bucky’s closest church friends. Most of the people he cares about are gathered in this yard, he realizes. Add in the rest of his family, and—

P.J. suddenly whines and squirms, and Phil jerks out of his own head to discover that the baby’s spotted Riley’s service dog for the hundredth time that afternoon. He twists away from Phil, his whole body craning toward the picnic table, and Phil fights to hike him up on his hip. “That dog’s not for you,” he reminds his nephew.

Said nephew arches his back and otherwise ignores him.

“Hey, look at this,” Darcy says suddenly, and both Phil and P.J. blink as she digs her necklace out of the deep V of her t-shirt. It reminds Phil of her normal courtroom garb, a long silver chain with fake plastic stones attached, but P.J. immediately forgets about the dog to reach for it. “Not if you’re going to fight your Uncle Phil,” Darcy warns, and P.J.’s face crumples. “Say it with me. ‘Good for Uncle Phil.’”

When he hesitates, Darcy repeats herself, and Phil watches as his nephew’s brow crinkles in baby-sized concentration. “Gah wa uh fuh?” he finally asks after the third or fourth demonstration.

She shrugs. “Close enough,” she decides, and he beams the second his fist closes around a bright blue stone.

“Now I know why he likes you,” Phil deadpans, and Darcy flashes him a sharp grin as she swigs her beer.

For a few minutes, they stand in companionable silence, listening as P.J. babbles to himself and picks at the different gems on Darcy’s necklace. Finally, though, she glances over at Phil. “Can Barney even work on it right now?” 

Phil frowns. “Work—”

“The child welfare case. If he’s in jail—”

“He could at least meet with his social worker. Or, if not Kurt, one of us.” P.J. tips his head up to study Phil’s face, and Phil sighs as he threads his fingers through his nephew’s soft hair. “He won’t return our phone calls, and last I checked, he’s still avoiding Wade. It’s like he thinks this will all just evaporate if he waits long enough.”

She raises her eyebrows. “You think his whole denial thing’s a front?”

“I don’t know.” She cocks one eyebrow a half-centimeter higher, a completely silent challenge, and he huffs out a hard sigh. “The more time I waste trying to put the pieces together, the less I actually know. But all contradictions, disappearances, and double-talk track right back to Barney, like spokes leading to a central hub.” He shrugs. “I’m just not sure how to connect all the dots.”

“So you say.”

The three words slice into the conversation like a surgeon’s scalpel, and a cold flash of fear runs up Phil’s spine as he glances over his shoulder. Behind him, Melinda May hovers near one of the snack tables, her arms crossed over her chest and her expression deathly serious. For a split second, she reminds him of a viper poised to strike, and the resemblance triples when she cocks her head to one side. Despite their long friendship—well over a decade, now that he thinks about it—he’s rarely toed the thin line separating him from Melinda’s wrath, let alone crossed it.

All at once, he remembers the searing heat of her anger and the artic chill of the cold shoulder that followed closely behind.

He swallows.

“If you want the rest of us to believe you’re helpless and floundering, that’s your prerogative. ,” she says, fingers curling into her upper arms. “But mark my words: you drag someone else down into this quagmire with you, and there will be hell to pay.”

He thinks of Skye Carson, and his stomach twists. “Melinda—”

“Hell, Phil,” she repeats, and he’s still groping at a response when she walks away.

A quick glance back at Darcy reveals that she’s openly gaping at him, and he sighs as he rubs a hand over his forehead. On the other side of the snack table, Tony Stark jabs a plastic fork at Melinda’s retreating back. “That,” he decides, “is why that woman creeps me out worse than a Stephen King movie marathon.”

Baby carrot halfway to his mouth, Bruce frowns. “You say that about pretty much every woman we know.”

“Not Pepper.” Bruce rolls his eyes, and Tony seizes the opportunity to steal the carrot right out from between his fingers. He dunks it in ranch before jabbing it in his husband’s direction. “And since they developed their deep and abiding love connection, I’ve reconsidered my position on Natasha.”

Bruce raises his eyebrows. “You once woke me up at three in the morning, convinced that Natasha could murder you with her mind.”

“Only with proper motivation,” Tony corrects, and Phil swears that he and Bruce snort in unison. Tony ignores them both to pop the carrot into his mouth. “But speaking of strong women in my life: Coulson, Rogers thinks it’s high time your baby smashes cake all over his face. Unless, of course, you’d rather stand there and bask in the shame of Melinda May knowing all your deepest secrets.”

Phil sighs. “She’s not that bad.”

“Uh, I think she’d mind-murder somebody _way_ before Natasha.” All three men glance in Darcy’s direction, but she just raises her hands. “In case you didn’t notice, the interns all avoid the law library because of her. Sharon’s still convinced she bugged it.”

Tony grins. “See?” he demands. “The power and wisdom of relative youth strikes again.”

Darcy whips her head around to glare at him. “Relative?” she snaps.

P.J. grits his teeth. “Rrrrr,” he growls, and they all stare at him for a second before laughing.

The birthday cake, as it turns out, is really an oversized cupcake in a shiny silver wrapper, and the green-tinted frosting almost perfectly matches Steve and Bucky’s housewarming cake. “Hard to find on short notice,” Sam Wilson explains as Clint places a pointy party hat on his nephew’s head. “Had to farm out the labor.”

“To his mom,” Riley clarifies. Sam elbows him in the ribs, but he just grins. “What? Nobody here would believe you’re the secret Betty Crocker behind the dessert.”

“Says the guy who burns rice on the regular,” Sam grumbles, and Riley rolls his eyes as he leans in to kiss his temple.

They arrange P.J. in front of his cupcake with care, the party hat only slightly crooked by the time he finally settles down. When he realizes that everyone else at the party’s gathered around him, he wriggles uncertainly and peers up at Clint. “You’re good,” Clint promises, bouncing the baby on his knee. P.J. frowns, his lower lip trembling slightly, and Clint flashes him an easy smile before drawing his attention away from the crowd and back toward the cupcake. P.J. peers at it—or, more likely, at the chunky white candle sticking out of the center—and when his expression transitions from fear to delight, Phil remembers just how much he loves the both of them. Unreservedly, without hesitation or uncertainty, he loves the man who made him into a husband and the baby who, for better or worse, has turned their lives upside down. 

And in that moment—P.J. chewing on his fist as Steve lights the candle, Clint readjusting the party hat that is proving too big for his tiny head—the two Bartons are wholly, unabashedly Phil’s family.

He tries to slip away, to join Maria and Nick in the back of the crowd and snap a few pictures for the family text message stream, but the instant he moves, P.J. grabs the hem of his t-shirt. “Na!” he complains, and all their friends laugh.

“I’m with the kid,” Clint chimes in, his voice warm and easy for the first time in days. He snakes a hand under the back of Phil’s shirt and touches his wait. “No trying to escape.”

Phil rolls his eyes. “I wanted to take pictures.”

“Boss, we’re surrounded by smartphones. Worse, we’re surrounded by people who love blackmailing us. You’ll get a thousand pictures. And besides,” he adds, his fingers spreading across the small of Phil’s back, “this is the kind of thing where it’d be nice to have both P.J.s around.”

Something in the center of Phil’s chest softens. He smiles. “Both?”

Clint shrugs, and for split second, something quiet and shy lurks in his expression. “Patrick James and Phillip John. The P.J.s.”

Phil ignores the way his breath catches in his throat to reach over and stroke the back of Clint’s neck. “Your P.J.s,” he corrects, and his husband’s whole face warms when he smiles again.

In the end, P.J.’s lower lip wobbles all the way through their friends’ rousing rendition of “Happy Birthday,” and he only dares touch the cupcake after Clint smears a dollop of icing onto his own nose. And even then, the baby shoves all of three fistfuls of chocolate cake into his mouth before he decides to share: first with Clint and Phil, and then with anyone else who so much as glances in their direction. He smears frosting into Amy’s hair, grates cake across Tony’s goatee, and even after the cake is reduced to nothing more than a pile of crumbs, he keeps smiling.

That night at home, Phil and Clint sing him happy birthday as he nods off to sleep, his hair still damp from his bath.

And two days later, when a picture of the three of them sharing mashed-up bits of cupcake “mysteriously” appears on their bedside table, Clint just shrugs and smiles.

 

==

 

“Do you want to talk about how irresponsible you’re being?”

Phil draws in a deep breath and counts to three before glancing up from the crumbling case reporter and facing Melinda May head-on. The afternoon light that forces its way past the gauzy law library drapes casts long shadows across their faces, and in the haze, he watches Melinda cross her arms. She looms much larger and more intimidating than her height—or her slacks and button-down shirt, honestly.

They stare at one another for a few beats before he says, “I think the interns are right about you bugging this room.”

She snorts. “The interns are idiots. Probably learned it from their boss.”

The law librarian stops flipping through his copy of _Newsweek_ , and Phil rolls his eyes at both of them as he returns to a 1923 case on the definition of curtilage. Someday, he thinks, Loki Laufeyson will raise an argument based in reality and current case law.

Today, unfortunately, is not that day.

He ignores Melinda when she drags out the chair across from him, his pen scratching across his legal pad and his eyes stalwartly trained on the book in front of him. When she slides the stack of other, unused books to the side, clearing the space between them, he flips a page on his notepad and keeps writing.

She folds her hands on the table like the negotiator character out of a bad crime drama. “Phil—”

“I’m working,” he reminds her.

“Only because, right now, working on your case means avoiding me.” 

He snorts at that, his head still lowered, and Melinda reaches over and slams the reporter shut. “Melinda—”

“Phil,” she says, voice sharp, and he snaps his mouth shut. When he finally glances at her over the rims of his glasses, she tips her head to one side. The silence lingers for a few beats before she says, “You know why I’m here.”

“To lecture me like you did at the party?” Her expression falters for a split second, a barely there cringe, and he shakes his head. “You know, I never thought I’d accuse you of being the pot who calls the kettle black, but when it comes to asking Skye Carson to do your dirty work, it seems—”

“I’m sorry for scolding you like a schoolmarm, if that’s what you’re upset about.” He huffs out a breath, three degrees shy of scoffing, and she sighs as she glances out the window. “For what it’s worth,” she continues, “I tried to corner you three different times, but I kept getting waylaid. Calling you out in front of Darcy and Stark was not part of the plan.”

“But calling me out in general was?” he asks.

“Yes.” He rolls his eyes, an immediate, knee-jerk reaction he’ll probably regret later, and works to ignore the way Melinda’s jaw tightens in response. “I don’t care if you think you’re in the right. You shouldn’t be conscripting Skye into helping you, and I’m not apologizing for pointing that out.”

“Because you’ve never used her to help you?” he fires back.

“Because there’s a difference between asking her for help and becoming obsessed.” He grits his teeth to keep from rolling his eyes again—or worse, from snapping at her—but she just leans forward, her arms resting heavily on the table. “I know how it feels to have your world turned upside down without your consent,” she says, her tone softening. “And I know that, sometimes, the only way to feel normal again is by force. But if you think Skye can do that for you, you’re wrong.”

He shakes his head. “I’m just trying to help Barney—”

“No, Phil, you’re not.” He snorts and rubs out the tension that lines his forehead, but when he finally glances up from the tabletop, Melinda pins him with her gaze. “For the first time in your life, someone else has swept in and changed everything. And instead of admitting that you’re powerless to stop it, you’re fighting tooth and nail to fix a problem that’s completely outside your control.”

He pauses for a moment, his lips pursed. “Somebody needs to fight for Barney.”

“You mean Barney needs to fight for himself.”

He snorts. “Because he’s handling himself so well this far.”

“That’s not a call you get to make.” He huffs again, harder than before, and turns to glance out the window at the parking lot beyond. The school a few blocks away just let out for the afternoon—Phil’d heard the distant echo of the bell just before Melinda’d interrupted him—and if he squints over the rims of his glasses, he can just barely make out the shapes of kids heading over to the park across the street. He imagines them climbing on the playground or screaming Red Rover into the early September air, and he almost smiles.

At least, until he thinks about P.J.—one year old now, with a father who won’t meet with his attorney even to view birthday pictures—and his stomach twists. 

He forces his attention away from the window only to discover Melinda watching him, her expression soft. He sighs. “We can’t live like this,” he finally admits, the words almost in a whisper. “Barney’s radio silence, that was bad enough. But now, with the court case and the million questions, we—”

He shakes his head as the words stick in the back of his throat, and Melinda rolls her lips together for a moment. “Nick and I have an old friend from the attorney general’s office who adopted— I don’t even remember his original relationship to his kids, anymore, but they were related even before he became their father. And the one thing he constantly points out is that you can’t make other people’s hard choices for them. You can only be there to pick up the pieces.”

Their eyes meet again, longer this time, and for a few seconds Phil remembers the Melinda May he first met more than a dozen years ago, a capable young woman in a tailored suit who’d just risked her whole career to protect her profession. She’d smiled more, in those days, her laugh warm and easy, but Phil knows without a single doubt that the old Melinda still exists under this one. 

The longer she stares him down, her expression soft and expectant, the more clearly the old Melinda shines through.

He wonders for a moment what version of himself lurks just below the surface.

Finally, he swallows and says, “He’s a year old. He needs his parents.”

“No, he needs family, and right now, that’s you and Clint.” Phil nods slightly, but Melinda just keeps watching him, her lips still pressed into a tight line. She toys with her wedding band for a moment before she adds, “I can put you in touch with him.”

Phil frowns. “Who?”

“Our friend Robert.” His frown deepens, and when he cocks his head at her, she smiles slightly. “He and his wife run a support group for people who have adopted children from within their own family.”

Something deep in the pit of Phil’s stomach stirs, but not nervously. Instead, it reminds him of joyful anticipation: the seconds before he first kissed Clint, the moment Clint agreed to marry him, the first time they laced fingers after exchanging their wedding rings. He swallows around it, his throat thick.

“We’re not adopting P.J.,” he finally points out.

“No, but you’re fostering him, which is close enough.” Phil shakes his head slightly, and Melinda shrugs. “Just think about it. There’s no harm in talking to people who’ve been exactly where you are right now. It might even help you focus on being a parent instead of a detective.”

He rolls his eyes. “Now you sound like Maria.”

“Good. Increases the chances you’ll listen.” He snorts half a laugh, and her mouth finally kicks up into a tiny smile. “By the way, does Clint know that you keep a panel of smart women on retainer?”

He scowls. “Get out of here before I ask Skye to borrow a bug-sweeper,” he threatens.

She actually laughs at that, and he bites down on his own smile as he waves her off. By the time she pushes back her chair, he’s already flipped back to the right page in the reporter, and he listens to her exchange pleasantries with the librarian as he scans back over his notes. In the margin, far away from his legal argument, are a few items he needs from the grocery store—milk, eggs, bananas, diaper wipes—and he spends entirely too long staring at that last item.

Melinda’s right about Barney turning their life upside down, of course, and about their inability to control the situation.

But she forgets, he thinks, about the other side of the coin, the little boy who barely knows his parents and who sometimes, in moments of elation, blurts out _da_.

He’s still staring at the grocery list when Melinda says, “Figuring out what’s going on with Barney doesn’t guarantee you’ll be happier, Phil.”

“The last thing I’m worried about is my own happiness,” he replies, and flips to a new page of his notepad.

 

==

 

“Could use your words with them, Katie-Kate.” 

Kate Bishop stops pushing P.J.’s swing long enough to shoot Clint a murderous glare, and Phil bites down on the edges of his smile as his husband raises his hands in defense. After a beat, the teen huffs and tosses her ponytail. “Because you’re a master at using your words?”

Clint frowns. “Hey. I’m getting better.”

When Kate stops pushing the swing for a second time, she tosses a glance over in Phil’s direction. He shrugs. “When there’s nowhere to go but up . . . ”

Clint’s small frown immediately crumples into a full-on scowl. “I’m starting to think Tony’s right about how I should spend _less_ time with you.”

Kate wrinkles her nose, and Phil snorts. “Tony is never right,” they remind him in unison, and Clint flaps a hand at both of them when they burst out laughing.

P.J. stares at his makeshift babysitter for one confused second before he joins in on the mirth, and Clint groans as he buries his face in his hands. Aside from them and a couple with a rambunctious Labrador puppy, the park is empty and quiet, the perfect place to spend a Saturday morning. Better yet, the weather’s turned cold for the first time since April, and Phil smiles as a crisp September breeze ruffles the leaves above them. 

The night before, they’d paused their usual Target run to swing by the baby department, and Phil’d raised his eyebrows as his husband’d started hunting through racks of fall jackets.

“Can’t have him freeze to death all fall,” he’d said at one point, holding up complicated-looking coat with a detachable hood.

“Okay,” Phil’d agreed, “but why purple?”

Clint, predictably, had grinned.

They’d ended up picking a gray jacket with purple trim before piling on a variety of other fall clothes: flannel shirts, two new pairs of baby jeans, a hat and mittens big enough to last at least into the winter. The cashier’d smiled knowingly and finger-waved at P.J. as Clint’d paid, and P.J.’d rewarded her by babbling merrily.

“Your baby’s adorable,” she’d commented as Clint’d signed.

“Thanks,” Phil’d said automatically, and he’d chosen to ignore the way Clint’d frowned at him.

P.J. waves and babbles now, reaching out for Kate every time the swing arches back in her direction, and she tickles his knees as she pushes him away from her. She’d arrived early that morning with coffee for herself and doughnuts enough for about ten people, and when Phil’d raised an eyebrow at her, she’d shoved him toward his running shoes. “Go do your weird weekend mating ritual,” she’d instructed. “We’ll talk later.”

“It’s just running!” Clint’d called through from the kitchen.

“Except normal people aren’t turned on by sweat and misery!” Kate’d hollered back, and Phil’d shaken his head at both of them. 

They’re both quiet now, Kate pushing the baby while Clint lounges next to Phil on his favorite park bench, and Phil dutifully pretends to read his book as he waits for their previous conversation to continue.

Finally, Kate sighs. “It’s like I like both of them, but for completely different reasons,” she says, her eyes fixed on the steady sweep of the swing. “If I even like America. Because sometimes, I think I just like the idea of her.”

Phil glances up from his book just as Clint rolls his lips together. They exchange a glance before Phil asks, “Meaning?”

Kate snorts. “Meaning she’s just— I don’t know. Fearless. Brave. Like she’s got balls of steel. And then there’s Eli, who can be so—”

“Boring?” Clint guesses. Kate huffs and shakes her head, but he flashes a crooked grin at her back. “Okay, not boring. Cautious, maybe? Straight-laced? Serious?”

“Is this how you talk about me when I’m not around?” Phil wonders aloud, and he’s not entirely surprised when his husband beams at him. He rolls his eyes as Kate snickers. “Because I’d like to remind you that boring, stable, straight-laced people have their benefits.”

“Yeah, except you’re nothing like that under the surface.” 

Phil snorts at him as he reopens his book, and he purposely ignores the way that Clint just keeps on grinning. Three seconds into the silent treatment, though, his husband knocks their shoulders together; another moment later, he reaches out and slides his hand up the inside of Phil’s thigh. Phil swallows at the feel of his rough palm on his jeans (never mind the gooseflesh that rises on his arms), but he flips to the next page, anyway.

“Oh, _please_ ,” Kate complains loudly, and Phil almost grins. “We’re in a public park. There are children present.”

“You mean like you?” Clint needles.

Kate wrinkles her nose. “You know, I _could_ ask Wade for life advice, instead of your sorry ass.”

Clint’s face pales, his mouth falling open almost involuntarily, and Phil only realizes that he’s accidentally matched his husband’s horrified expression when Kate smirks at both of them. She winks over her shoulder before returning her attention to P.J., and he claps merrily when she grins at him. 

Clint swallows audibly. “She’s joking about Wade, right?” he asks seriously.

Phil nods. “At least, I hope so.”

They linger in silence for a few minutes after that, Clint’s shoulder still pressed against Phil’s and his hand still resting lightly on Phil’s thigh, and Phil almost returns to reading when he realizes that Clint’s still studying Kate’s back, his expression soft and cautious. For a moment, Phil expects him to break the silence—to ask about America and Eli, or Wade, or maybe even about Barney’s case—but instead, Clint just keeps watching their friend.

He wonders about the thousands of thoughts that bounce around in Clint’s head, the tempest he’s fighting against. Sometimes, he suspects they’re weathering the same storm; other times, he thinks they’re each in their own hurricane, miles apart.

Clint jumps a little when Phil reaches up to touch his face, but the instant their eyes meet, the tension pours out of him until he’s finally relaxed and smiling. Phil smiles back, some of the tightness in his own chest loosening, and he sweeps his thumb over his husband’s cheekbone before kissing him.

The kiss feels slow and steady at the same time, as reliable as Phil’s own heartbeat, and he sighs as he threads his fingers into Clint’s hair. Clint releases a tiny, nearly pained noise, and grips Phil’s leg like he thinks someone’s about to tear them apart.

When they finally break the kiss to grin at each other like teenagers, Kate clears her throat expectantly. “I’m taking Peej down to the baby slide,” she decides, and Phil realizes suddenly that she’s hovering all of three feet away, P.J. on her hip. “Because like I said, there are children present, and no one needs your gross public displays.”

Clint grins. “Good. More for us.”

And despite himself (and the heat that crawls up the sides of his neck), Phil chuckles as he shakes his head.

Clint barely waits for Kate and their nephew to retreat over to the playground area proper before he stretches out his limbs like a lazy cat might, his one arm stretched along the back of the bench. He tips his head against Phil’s shoulder and closes his eyes, and Phil leans to press a kiss into his hair before he returns to his book. This, he thinks, is exactly what Maria and Melinda meant when they said to relinquish control over the situation, to be a husband and a parent without trying to bandage over all the broken pieces of P.J. and Barney’s life. And after a week of radio silence from everyone involved in the case—Wade, Skye, even Barney himself—Phil thinks he’s capable of doing exactly that.

Maybe.

At least, until P.J. screams bloody murder half a chapter later.

He and Clint jump up off the bench as one, and Phil barely registers knocking his book into the wood chips as he stumbles to keep up with his husband’s full-on sprint toward the playground. Kate’s already rushing toward them by the time they step off onto the foamy ground, her face pale and stricken as tries to hold onto the howling, fighting baby. 

“He fell,” she says breathlessly, and for a split second, Phil expects her to start crying, too. “He wanted to walk up the steps, but my hand slipped or _something_ , I’m so—”

“Dada!” P.J. shrieks suddenly, and Kate nearly drops him as he throws himself in Clint’s direction. Clint freezes, his hands already open, creating a momentary comedy of errors: P.J. kicking and squirming, his arms outstretched, and his uncle staring helplessly at him.

But even when P.J.’s tears double (more out of fear and confusion than actual pain, as far as Phil can tell) and the word _dada_ transforms into a mantra, Clint just keeps staring, his expression perfectly blank.

“Here, baby,” Phil says automatically, and P.J. graces Clint with one final, forlorn glance before collapsing into Phil’s arms. He balls his hands in Phil’s t-shirt and hides his face, and his howls only muffle into frightened sobs after Phil shushes him a few times. “You’re okay,” he murmurs, even as his eyes drift back to his husband. “You’re just scared, right? Falling down that stair, probably scared you pretty bad. Even if you did just bounce off the foam.”

He bounces P.J. once, and P.J. stops crying just long enough to hiccup.

Clint, on the other hand, scrubs a hand over his face. “Phil—”

“Not now,” Phil says, and he only hears the hard edge to his voice when Clint rolls his lips together. “I know it’s not ideal—” 

“You mean wrong,” Clint corrects tightly.

“—but not now. Not when he’s still crying.” He pauses for a moment, his hand still stroking steady, comforting patterns on P.J.’s heaving back. “Not when he really wants you, instead of me.”

Clint opens his mouth, ready to protest—or, more likely, to start an argument—but he hesitates when P.J. lifts his head up. He’s tear-streaked and red-faced, his fingers clenched into tiny fists as he clings to Phil, and the second he glimpses Clint’s face, Clint’s whole expression softens.

“Da?” P.J. asks, stretching out one hopeful arm.

“Yeah, kiddo, I’m here,” Clint says, and opens up his hands.

Fifteen minutes later—after both Kate and P.J. can breathe without shaking and Clint officially deems their nephew freaked-out but unharmed—they brush off Phil’s book and toss it into the stroller for the short walk home. P.J. refuses to leave the relative safety of Clint’s arms, but he still smiles and laughs as Clint bounces him down the sidewalk to an assortment of horse noises. Kate rolls her eyes and mocks him endlessly as she pushes the empty stroller at their side, but Phil knows without a second thought that she still feels guilty.

And Phil—

Phil waits until they’re ignoring him to dig his phone out of his pocket and open up a text to Melinda.

_I think we need the name of your friend with the support group after all._

 

==

 

“I’m not a psychologist, if that’s what you’re worried about. I won’t pick your brain. I’m just here to talk. Really, we all are.”

The kitchen in the Gonzales house reminds Phil a little of the kitchen in his childhood home: cozy, brightly lit, and full of the kind of random debris that remind you human beings actually live in this space. The refrigerator is covered in take-out menus, hastily scribbled notes, and photographs with curled corners, the calendar hanging on the wall includes at least three or four post-it notes, and two or three empty glasses line the counter next to the sink. Robert Gonzales sighs. “Children,” he mutters, and reaches for the coffee pot.

Phil smiles politely as the man fills three mugs, but only because he’s not entirely sure what else to do. Despite the welcoming kitchen—the welcoming house, really, with well-worn carpets and comfortable-looking furniture—he still feels a little out of his depth, like he’s intruding on someone else’s private moment. Worse, Clint stands next to him, a sentinel with folded hands and tight shoulders, and his mouth barely twitches when Gonzales slides him a mug.

“It won’t bite,” the man promises, but Clint just nods. He hesitates when Gonzales gestures toward the kitchen table, only following when Phil decides to sit.

If Gonzales notices Clint’s behavior, he says nothing about it, and he shrugs as he leans his cane against a nearby cabinet. “Most of the other group members fell into parenthood— Well, ‘accidentally’ is probably the wrong word. No one takes in someone else’s child without having both eyes open. But they certainly never expected to adopt their children. In most cases, their heads are still reeling.” Clint’s fingers flex around his coffee mug, his knuckles almost white. Gonzales watches him for a moment, his face carefully neutral. “In a few cases,” he continues, “the children still see their biological parents. In others—”

“We’re not keeping them apart.” Gonzales purses his lips as Clint finally glances up from his coffee, his expression as tight and unyielding as his tone. Phil raises his eyebrows, a meager attempt at a silent warning, but Clint just shakes his head. “My brother’s a lot of things, but he’s still P.J.’s dad. If you think we’re here to learn how to cut him off, then—”

Gonzales immediately holds up a hand. “That’s not what I’m suggesting at all. It’s not even on the agenda. The rest of the group and me, we’re just here to help.” 

Clint snorts. “I know how to deal with my feelings.”

Gonzales shrugs. “I never said you didn’t.”

Clint studies Gonzales for a moment before dropping his eyes to his coffee, and Phil tries not to notice how aggressively his husband glares at the rising steam. For the last three days, Clint’s held himself tightly, guarding both his body and heart against the impending appointment with Gonzales and the support group. He’d impressed Phil by not rejecting the idea outright—and by texting Melinda to ask for details—but as Wednesday night had crept closer, his mild interest had morphed into something more hostile.

“Bruce and Tony never needed a support group,” he’d pointed out that very morning, his eyes finding Phil’s in their cloudy bathroom mirror. “Three kids, and they figured it all out just fine.”

Phil’d snorted. “Except Bruce and Tony chose to be foster parents, whereas we had a baby dropped on our doorstep.”

Clint’d huffed a breath and reached for his toothbrush, effectively ending the conversation.

Now, a half-hour before the scheduled start time, he turns his mug around in his hands. Phil studies his expression, but he only really spots fear lurking under Clint’s usually calm exterior. He touches Clint’s knee under the table, a simple reminder of their proximity, and Clint nearly smiles. 

“I don’t think either of us _really_ knows why we’re here,” Phil says a moment later, and he nearly rolls his eyes when his husband huffs into his coffee cup. “Neither of us really expected to be in this position. We have plenty of nieces and nephews, but when it comes to a toddler living in our house—”

“You’re at a loose end?” Gonzales guesses, and Phil nods almost automatically. The other man smiles slightly. “I felt the same way when my niece came to live with us. Not because of her age, but because I’d only ever raised boys up to that point.”

Phil raises his eyebrows. “And?” 

“And I’m still surprised she survived to adulthood.” Phil snorts a laugh, and even Clint smiles around the lip of his coffee mug. Phil leans their shoulders together for a moment. “Can I ask your secret, or are you saving that for support group?”

“Well, as my wife would say—”

“Careful. Any sentence starting with that phrase means he’s about to tacitly admit I’m right without ever saying the words.” Gonzales’s placid face breaks into a warm smile as a woman in jeans and a red blouse sweeps into the room. She carries herself with a grace Phil usually associates with his sister Amy (or, occasionally, with Maria Hill), and when she smiles, he feels a little like he’s just stumbled into the presence of royalty. She brushes loose curls out of her face before offering a hand. “You must be Nick and Melinda’s friends. I’m Laura Gonzales.”

The name registers in the back of Phil’s mind just as Clint blinks owlishly at her. “As in Senator Gonzales?” he asks.

Laura chuckles, but Phil senses a sharp edge behind her easy manner. “When the State legislature is in session, yes. The rest of the time, I’m Laura. Or Mrs. G., if you’re a student in my English classes.” Clint nods dumbly, and Laura pats the back of his hand before extricating herself from his grip. She glances at her husband. “I might be late. I’m meeting your wayward son for a drink.”

Gonzales raises an eyebrow. “You mean our wayward son?”

“Until he stops dragging his heels with this divorce, he’s _your_ son.” Gonzales snorts into his coffee, but Laura just shakes her head. “Very nice to meet you. I hope you’ll stick around for group tonight.”

Clint shrugs noncommittally. “That’s the plan.”

She cocks her head slightly at the uncertainty lurking in his tone. “Trust me. You won’t regret it.”

Clint nods a little, his gaze returning to his coffee as Laura gathers her keys and bag. Gonzales studies her carefully, his eyes sharp behind his glasses until she leans down to kiss him goodbye. “Please don’t kill him,” he instructs.

Laura shrugs. “No promises,” she replies, and smooths fingers through his hair before walking out the back door.

Gonzales waits until she closes and locks the door before he turns back to Clint and Phil. “Before you ask,” he says, “Laura and I met . . . I hesitate to say later in life, since she constantly reminds me that our best years are ahead of us, but I’d already been married. She signed on to be the stepmother of two mildly resentful teenage boys.”

Phil thinks momentarily of the mildly resentful teenage boys in his life—his nephews, Miles, and (to a much lesser extent), Teddy—and smiles. Next to him, Clint snorts a laugh. “We wanna know what happened next?” he asks.

For the first time, Gonzales’s smile reaches his eyes. “Next, her cousin died and left behind her son Billy. A year after that, we took in my teenaged niece after she had a little trouble with the law.” He leans back in his chair, one hand on his coffee mug, and spends a moment studying Phil and Clint carefully. Like an active attorney in the courtroom, Phil thinks, instead of a retired assistant attorney general. “We’ve never had a baby together, Laura and I,” he finally says, “but we’re familiar with becoming new parents later in life.”

Clint’s shoulders tighten. “We’re not his parents.”

Gonzales raises his eyebrows. “Right now, you’re raising him. Wake him up in the morning, put him to bed at night. And everything he learns, every new milestone, they belong to you.” He shrugs. “Definition of a parent, if you ask me.”

Clint turns his mug around between his palms a few times before he says, “Doesn’t mean we signed up for that.”

The man across from them snorts. “Nobody in this group signed up for what they got. That’s why we’re here.”

They linger at the kitchen table even when Gonzales rises to brew a fresh pot of coffee and plate the cookies that his wife left behind (minus the ones his teenage son sweeps in to steal when no one’s paying attention), and when the first group members arrive, Clint shrugs before heading into the living room to join them. The others all fall into conversation easily, swapping stories like old friends; a woman in her seventies brags about her teenaged grandson, a pair of women around Clint’s age show off the latest pictures of their toddler niece, a husband and wife jokingly ask Gonzales whether he’ll trade his teenager for their seven-year-old. 

“I am not equipped to see another boy through puberty,” Gonzales answers seriously, and he raises an eyebrow when Clint barks a laugh. “Whatever horrors just popped into your head, dial it up to eleven for Zack and Lee.”

And almost everyone else laughs at the horrified grimace that replaces Clint’s grin.

By the time the group breaks up around nine (and around the time they receive Tony’s _tenth_ picture of P.J. asleep on his lap), Clint’s clasping Gonzales’s hand and thanking him in a way that sounds almost sincere. But otherwise, he keeps quiet as they slip their shoes on and walk out into the brisk September night.

They’re parked part of the way down the block, Phil’s sedan a dark blotch in a night lit mostly by moonlight, and Clint knocks their shoulders together as they wander down the sidewalk. “You okay?” Phil finally asks.

His husband rolls his lips together. “Still think Tony and Bruce wouldn’t have needed his group.”

He sighs. “Clint—”

“Hey,” Clint interrupts, catching Phil’s arm. Even half-shadowed, his whole face is soft and open, and the little bolus of fear in the pit of Phil’s stomach finally starts to loosen. “I’m not saying it’s a bad thing we maybe need this,” he continues after a moment. “I more just— Shit, Phil, I still don’t know what the hell we’re doing. Almost three months later, and I still—”

The words catch in the back of his throat, sticky and shuddering, and Phil allows him one rough breath before he reels him in for a hug. “You and me both,” he admits, and presses his nose into Clint’s messy hair.

 

==

 

Late that night, long after both P.J. and Clint are sprawled out asleep, Phil’s cell phone chimes.

He blinks away from his laptop slowly, like a man resurfacing from a drug-induced haze, and his back and shoulders pop when he stretches. He surveys the mess in front of him—two empty coffee mugs, a pile of Westlaw printouts, last week’s notes from the law library—and pinches the bridge of his nose.

Another hour, and he will finally be done with this motion response.

Maybe.

His phone chimes again, and he sighs as he unearths it from beneath his case file. He mentally prepares himself for another garbled, sleep-deprived text from Maria (as she survives midnight feedings by group-messaging her best friends) and swipes to unlock the screen.

But even though he’s braced himself for another rant about the horrors of chapped nipples, his stomach still sinks like a stone.

**Skye Carson:** _sorry it took so long, but i fell down a serious rabbit hole with this brother in law project of yours. its circles within spirals, AC. wheels within wheels._

**Skye Carson:** _(jemmas in a serious dusty springfield phase right now, sorry.) anyway. need to meet with you about this. probably not on work property. if you know what i mean._

He reads and rereads the messages at least a dozen times, and the tiny black letters sear into his brain until he finally pushes his phone away. But even then, even when he closes his eyes to pinch the bridge of his nose, he remembers every last word: circles within circles, need to meet, not on work property.

He thinks of Melinda’s sharp eyes glaring at him from across a table in the law library and her lecture on relinquishing control over the situation.

Then, he thinks of Skye’s warnings about the thin line between legal and illegal searches, and he stops breathing for a moment.

When he finally unlocks his screen again, his hands feel clammy. _What if I told you I didn’t want to know?_ he texts back. _What if I said I’m ready to let Barney and Ally go?_

Skye’s reply rattles through almost immediately. _trust me: as a lawyer, never mind the chief assistant whatever you are, you need to see it. asap._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to some changes in my real-life schedule, I've tweaked the [MPU schedule](http://the-wordbutler.tumblr.com/post/133101293592/yes-i-know-i-implied-that-the-last-schedule) again. I'm sorry. 2015 will go down in history as the year that kicked my ass, I'm pretty sure.


	11. The Dark and Deep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Phil and Clint finally talk about everything: Barney, Ally, Phil’s investigation, and the silence that stretches between them. But the silence that's still between them and Barney? That's a whole different story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things I know nothing about: bail. Also, corporations. You think I retained all I learned for the bar exam? Please. That stuff is long gone. (Although I can still name most of our bar exam essay questions. See the end notes for that impressive list.)
> 
> Thanks as always to my beta-readers, Jen and saranoh. This chapter had a lot of typos throughout. Luckily, they saved my bacon.

“You hired the computer girl to pick apart Barney’s case?” 

Phil grits his teeth to keep from flinching at the anger in Clint’s tone, but his husband just throws up his hands. He crosses the kitchen, his pacing even more agitated than usual, and Phil rolls his lips together. “You know,” Clint presses, “for the guy who pretends to be the smart one in this marriage—”

“Hired implies payment.” Clint swings on his heel to glare at the young woman at the kitchen table, but Skye Carson just shrugs. “Your husband called in a favor. No money—or fall-flavored frappuccinos—exchanged hands.”

Phil sighs and rubs his forehead. “You’re really not helping.”

“Not even a marshmallow dream bar for my troubles,” she mutters, and Clint gapes at her for a moment before he returns to pacing a tight circle around the room.

Phil tracks his husband’s movements for a few seconds before he sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. When Skye had first burst into the house—ringing the doorbell once before simply waltzing in, a whirlwind of computer bag, fall jacket, and long curls—Clint had still been out at his weekly meeting of the minds with Bruce and Natasha. Phil and P.J. had both frozen in the middle of the living room, toys spread all over the rug, and blinked up at her.

“You ignore my text messages, and I hunt you down like an illegal big game hunter,” she’d informed him. “That’s just how it works.”

“Am I the hunter or the statutorily protected big game in this scenario?” Phil’d wondered aloud.

P.J.’d glanced between them and knocked over his toy bin for the third time since Phil’d started cleaning up for the night.

“Okay, definitely a fan of the baby,” Skye’d decided, and headed straight into the kitchen.

By the time Phil’d finished cleaning up the mess, she’d helped herself to a beer and a pile of tortilla chips. And by the time he’d tucked P.J. into bed and kissed him goodnight—

He only blames himself for missing the sound of Clint’s car in the driveway and the squeak of the front door swinging open.

He blames both himself _and_ Skye for Clint’s volcanic reaction.

“You forget that you used to work for the ethics commission?” Clint demands, and Phil flinches out of his own thoughts at the obvious anger that crackles through his voice. “‘Cause for the guy who brought down Nathaniel Essex, you sure as hell don’t mind putting both our jobs in jeopardy to— What? Play hide-and-seek with my asshole brother?”

“We didn’t break the law.” Skye cringes and releases a tiny whine, and Phil grits his teeth as he glares at her. She ducks her head slightly, her eyes fixed on her computer screen. “Well, I never broke the law,” he corrects after a beat. “And I explicitly told _her_ not to break the law, either. To research as much as possible, but—”

“To stay on this side of the handcuff continuum,” Skye finishes for him. “Luckily, I’m good at finding the loopholes.”

Clint’s whole body bristles as he jabs a finger in her direction. “See?” he snaps. “How the fuck is that okay?”

“You mean beside the fact that it’s how your emotionally constipated honey-bunny over there shows he cares?” 

Red-hot anger flashes across Clint’s face as he whips around to glare at Skye, and Phil only realizes after she raises her hands that he’s staring at her, too. Something in the bottom of his stomach clenches, but she just shrugs. 

“Look,” she says, “I’m as down with this whole ‘listening to the parents fight’ deal as the next lifelong orphan, but I’m pretty sure A.C. called me in because this whole thing freaked him out and he wanted to help.”

Clint raises his eyebrows. “You call this helping?”

“Given the quagmire I just waded into, yeah.” Skye pauses, rolling her lips together. “Well, maybe. Depends on what’s buried in the bottom of this shit heap.” 

Clint’s whole body clenches, the last rumble of thunder before a torrential downpour, and Phil heaves a sigh. “Skye?”

“Yeah?”

“Would you mind giving us a minute?”

She scowls. “Seriously? You’re banishing me?”

“You want me to call the county sheriff on you instead?” Clint snaps. Skye freezes, her mouth hanging open as he pins her in place with a sharp glance. “‘Cause I’m the traffic attorney. Got half the force on speed dial, just waiting for a call.”

“Says the guy with the felon for a brother,” Skye fires right back. Something searing hot and suffocating blooms in the center of Phil’s chest, but when he twists to glare at her, she slams her computer shut. Another second later, she stomps out into the living room, her boots heavy on the hardwood floor.

Clint snorts after her, his expression still tight, and Phil shoots him a dark look. “You’re not going to call the police on her,” he points out.

“You sure?” Clint retorts sharply. “‘Cause from where I’m standing, it looks like I just walked into some kinda alternate universe. Maybe that shit’s right up my alley here.”

The acid in his words stings enough that Phil flinches, and Clint huffs out a hard breath as he finally, miraculously, stops pacing. For a moment, he deflates, his weight resting against the countertop and a hand dragging through his hair. The anger dissipates, and in that second, he transforms back into Phil’s easy-going husband, a man with bare feet and slouchy old jeans who just wants to raid the refrigerator after a night out with friends.

Guilt washes over Phil as he realizes that his obsessive, ends-over-means need to fix every problem is what stripped that easy-going nature away.

He sighs. “Clint—”

“I really don’t get it,” Clint says, talking over Phil rather than interrupting him. Phil rolls his lips together. “Three-quarters of the time, you act like nothing’s happening. Like everything’s totally normal, same as back before Barney showed up on our doorstep. But then all of a sudden, you turn around and—”

“What?” Clint snorts and rolls his eyes, but Phil holds up his hands in defense. He ignores the tiny spark of anger kindling in his chest to stare at his husband. “I’m not sure what you’re accusing me of, but—”

“Really, Zen Master Coulson? You’re clueless about this one?” The venom springs back into Clint’s voice, sharper than before, and Phil feels his whole body tense as his husband pushes away from the counter. “‘Cause there’s only one person in this room who never blinks when Barney disappears, or lands in the jail infirmary after a knock-down, drag-out with a bookie, or decides he’s just not gonna talk to his attorney, and that guy’s _not_ me. Just like I’m not the one who acts like the baby’s just part of the damn furniture even though—”

Phil’s jaw clenches without his permission. “That’s unfair,” he cuts in.

Clint cocks his head slightly. “You sure about that?”

Phil pauses at the challenge in his tone—never mind in the cut of his shoulders and jaw. At least, until Clint raises his eyebrows. “Yes,” he replies, and he hears a sharp edge in his own voice. “I know you’re disappointed, somehow, in the fact I’m not tearing my hair out, but—”

His husband cuts him off with a dismissive snort. “Yeah, ‘cause tearing your hair out and being a stone, that’s the same thing.”

“I don’t—” Phil starts, but he immediately grits his teeth around the anger that rumbles through those two words, and worse, through his entire body. Clint remains impassive, his face expression perfectly neutral but only seconds from complete and total outrage, and Phil works hard to keep from fueling that fire. To stave off the screaming match until after Skye leaves, he thinks, and draws in a steadying breath. 

To keep from waking up their baby, his mind whispers, and he shakes the thought away.

“I don’t know what you want from me, right now,” he says after a beat, and somehow, he holds his voice steady. Clint straightens slightly, almost frowning. “Last time you accused me of not caring, I let it go. But if Skye proves anything, it’s—” 

“That you don’t want to talk to me.”

The sheer, unrelenting coldness in Clint’s answer catches Phil off-guard, and by the time he recognizes the feeling that blooms in his stomach as hurt, Clint’s huffing and tossing up his hands. “Don’t you fucking get it, Phil? This whole time, ever since Barney showed up with P.J., you’ve been so—so _stoic_ that I barely recognize you anymore. Barely know the guy sleeping on the other side of my bed!” 

He shakes his head, and for one second, Phil realizes that Clint’s anger is really a mix of a thousand other emotions: hurt, frustration, helplessness, disappointment. His stomach sinks, but Clint just sighs. “You never say how you feel about anything, never even _hint_ about whether you’re really okay with having a damn kid long term, and you know what? I’m tired.” His shoulders soften. “I am so fucking tired of putting on a brave face when—”

“You think you’re the only one?” Phil’s not surprised, really, at how small his voice sounds, or how every word catches in the back of his throat, ready to break into pieces. Clint rolls his lips together, glancing away, and Phil swallows. “Clint, do you really think you’re the only one feeling all that?”

Clint shrugs. “Sure as shit feels like it.”

“Well, you’re wrong.” He snorts again, rougher than before, and Phil shakes off all the frustration that still pools in the pit of his stomach to step forward. He closes the distance between them slowly, the feet dissolving into inches. Clint keeps his eyes on the floor. “I promise, I think about all of it. And I worry, but—”

“And how am I supposed to know when you don’t talk to me?” For the first time all night, the accusation trembles, so wrapped up in Clint’s barely contained hurt that Phil feels radiating outward, into his own chest. He hesitates, his mind still reeling, and Clint finally raises his head. “Denver,” he says, and Phil stops breathing. “Every time you pull shit like this, unfair as it probably is, I end up thinking about Denver.”

“Clint,” Phil murmurs automatically, the name sounding like a plea and a prayer even to his own ears, and Clint shakes his head as he drops his eyes again. He flinches when Phil touches his arm, his whole body tensing, but he never pulls away.

They stand like that for some indeterminate amount of time—seconds, maybe, or months—before a soft knocking drags them apart. In the doorway that separates the kitchen from the living room, Skye rocks up on her toes and buries her hands in her pockets. “So . . . ” 

Clint sighs and, after another brief glance in Phil’s direction, shrugs. “C’mon,” he says, waving her into the kitchen.

Her eyes sweep over to Phil, and she only budges when he nods half-heartedly. Within seconds, she’s back at the head of the table, her fingers sweeping across the keyboard as she begins pulling up a number of programs and documents. Clint sinks into the chair closest to her, his attention focused on the flickering screen rather than on Phil, and Phil exhales as he pulls up a second chair. 

“If you’d rather come back tomorrow—”

“I’m pretty sure you’d kick yourself for waiting,” Skye replies without glancing up, and Phil shakes his head in defeat. She opens one last file before looking in Clint’s direction. “Just to catch you up,” she starts, “my latest assignment from A.C. was to—”

“A.C.?” he repeats, the barest hint of humor in his voice.

“Assistant District Attorney Coulson. Do you guys seriously _never_ talk to one another?” Clint snorts, and Phil’s stomach twists until he realizes there’s no heat in it. “Anyway,” Skye continues, “A.C. asked me to hunt down your brother’s baby mama. Trace this series of unfortunate events back to the source, since apparently, there is no man on Earth who isn’t rendered _completely_ stupid by a pretty lady.”

“I’m not sure that applies to all men,” Phil points out.

Clint raises an eyebrow. “You want me to tell her the story about your high school girlfriend?” 

Phil rolls his eyes—half at the question itself and half at how normal it all feels, Clint bantering with a young woman at their kitchen table—but Skye just flashes a predatory grin. “Uh, we are definitely talking about that when I’m done here,” she says even as her fingers keep moving. She pulls up a saved webpage on her browser. “As for Allison Henderson, it turns out that she disappeared because the Warren County Police Department picked her up on a warrant in the middle of May. According to public records and a newspaper article, she and a couple buddies lifted a couple thousand dollars of electronics from a Wal-Mart before hitting the store security guard with their car and speeding off, _The Fast and the Furious_ -style.”

Clint swears under his breath, disappointment evidence on his face. Phil considers reaching over to touch his wrist until he remembers the heat and hurt from their earlier conversation. He turns to Skye instead. “That’s why Barney went up to Warren County, isn’t it?” he asks. “He wanted to visit Ally.”

Across the table, his husband scowls, but Skye just shakes her head. “That’s the thing,” she says, leaning back in her chair. “The judge set, like, crazy bail to keep her locked up. No reason not to, with the whole ‘running down a Wal-Mart employee’ thing. But a couple days before your brother-in-law headed up there? Somebody bailed her out.” Phil blinks, his brow furrowing, as Skye opens up a PDF file. “Bail guys are huge on their privacy—mostly because they don’t want people poking through the seedy underbelly of their weird world—but a friend of a friend hooked me up with a copy of the actual contract she signed.” She pauses, frowning slightly. “Or rather, the contract this David guy signed.”

“David?” Clint asks, tipping forward to squint at the screen. Skye allows him a few seconds of suffering before she zooms in on the signature blocks at the bottom of the page. “There a last name on that?”

“On a shitty scan with an almost unreadable signature?” she asks sharply. Phil raises an eyebrow at her, and she huffs out a breath. “Honestly, I’m not even sure his name is David. The longer I look at it, the more I see a hundred other names: Davro, Davis, Daveed, maybe Devil—”

Eyes still glued to the screen, Clint almost smiles. “Leave it to Ally to find a buddy named Devil.”

Phil rolls his lips together. “You know a David-Davro-Davis?” he questions.

“Not from the park, if that’s what you’re getting at,” Clint replies with a little shake of his head. “But Ally— I don’t even know where Ally’s from, originally. And just ‘cause this guy runs around with her doesn’t mean—”

“That he runs around with your brother?” Skye finishes, and Clint worries his lower lip for a moment before he nods. “I thought about that, too. Especially since, according to my buddy—”

Phil raises an eyebrow. “You mean your friend of a friend?”

She levels him a thoroughly teenage glare, and across the table, Clint bites back a snicker. Phil rolls his eyes at both of them. “According to my friend of a friend,” she continues, leaning heavily on the words, “David-Davro-Davis bailed out the whole crew from Ally’s Wal-Mart escapade. We’re talking _mad_ cash, all of it guaranteed by some company. And even better, it just so happens that one of Ally’s little shoplifting friends just scored some pending charges against him in Union County.”

A keystroke later, and another PDF pops up on the screen, this one the record of actions from a criminal case. The name at the top of the file, George Valdez, is unfamiliar, but when he glances at the charges—

“Fuck,” Clint breathes, his hand scrubbing through his hair.

“I triple-checked,” Skye says seriously, one hand raised as though swearing an oath in court. “He’s definitely one of the guys who robbed that electronics store with Barney.”

Clint nods a little helplessly, his fingers still scratching through his hair as he studies the document in front of him, and Phil watches for a few seconds before he sighs. Barney running around with a group of petty criminals, breaking into an electronics store and fighting with bookies— As traitorous as he feels for thinking it, Phil decides that those choices fit with what he knows about Barney, a decent man who sometimes stumbles into monumentally stupid decisions. But with the additions of Mysterious Mister David and Wiltshire Holdings, never mind Ally and George Valdez . . . Suddenly, Phil’s not sure what he knows about Barney anymore, or how deep a rabbit hole he’s peering into.

Especially knowing that Valdez is connected to both Ally _and_ Barney.

And knowing that, somewhere, Ally remains a free woman courtesy of Wiltshire Holdings while Barney languishes in the county jail. 

He draws in a long breath, his thoughts rumbling around without really connecting to one another, cogs in a malfunctioning machine. “I don’t suppose David’s paid a visit to Barney in hopes of bailing him out,” he finally says.

Skye shrugs. “Given how insanely overprotective jails are with their visitor logs, I have no idea. But none of this compares to the one other, _super_ weird quirk that came up while I was poking around.”

She opens up a handful of windows that quickly cover the whole screen, and Phil quickly recognizes most of them as business registration forms from the Secretary of State’s website. Clint scoots forward, his eyes narrowing, as Skye flips back to one of the bail contracts. “Remember how I said that all the Warren County bail bonds were backed by some company?” 

Phil nods automatically, but Clint just frowns. “What’s that got to do with—”

“You know, Jessica Fletcher never dealt with people interrupting her big reveals,” Skye cuts in, and Clint very nearly smiles even as he rolls his eyes. For the first time in a good half hour, Phil feels his shoulders start to relax. “All the bail that David paid—for Ally, for George, for the three other people involved—was backed by a corporation called Wiltshire Holdings,” she continues. “And since I thought it was weird to have an actual company putting up bail, I went online to try to find their website. Except, as far as I can tell? Wiltshire Holdings doesn’t exist.”

Clint flicks his eyes away from the screen. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that I dug around online, and there is absolutely no indication that Wiltshire Holdings is an actual thing that exists in the world.” She closes the bail contract before gesturing to her collection of documents. “If you spend enough time,” she presses, “you can link Wiltshire to another company that links to a defunct S-corporation out of Kansas, but that’s it. Trail runs cold.” She shrugs. “And as far as I can tell, none of these entities are operating businesses. They’re more like ghosts. Façade storefronts with nothing behind them.”

“Shell corporations,” Phil murmurs, mostly to himself.

“Maybe shell corporations, maybe some honest businesses that crashed and burned years ago and that David’s co-opted to help bail his friends out of jail. I don’t know.” She purses her lips, her gaze drifting from Phil over to where Clint’s still examining the computer screen. “All I know is that a ghost named David bailed Ally and this George guy out of jail, and some equally ghostly company backed him up. But either way . . . ”

She trails off, her shoulders lifting in another weak shrug, and Phil sighs before glancing across the table. Clint tears his eyes away from the documents in the same instant, and for a few seconds, they just stare at each other. Watching one another like when they first started dating, Phil thinks, and he bites down on the edges of a smile. Clint’s mouth twitches slightly, and Phil wonders whether he’s thinking the same thing.

But a second later, Clint sighs, breaking the moment. “Either way what?” he asks, and Skye blinks at him. “I know you’re not done, so: either way what?”

At the head of the table, Skye swallows. “Either way,” she says carefully, “something very weird is going on here, and your brother and his girlfriend are up to their necks in the worst of it.”

 

==

 

Phil stands on the front stoop long after Skye’s van rattles down their street and disappears, the autumn chill creeping slowly into his bones. She’d apologized to Clint before packing up her bag, her gaze focused on the kitchen tile more than anywhere else, and slipped him a thumb drive when they’d shaken hands goodnight. Phil’d cocked an eyebrow, but neither one noticed.

Instead, Clint’d thanked her and disappeared down the hallway, toward the office.

For a moment, Phil imagines him that room, his face lit only by the dim light of the laptop screen as he reads and rereads the documents from Skye’s wild goose chase. He thinks of Clint running broad hands through his hair, worrying his lower lip, tipping forward to rest elbows on his thighs, and every last mental image leaves him smiling. Nothing like visions of Clint’s razor-sharp focus to remind him why he fell in love in the first place.

And nothing like the memory of Clint’s cataclysmic anger to wipe the smile from his face.

Closing and locking the front door sounds like an explosion against the heavy silence lurking inside, and Phil braces himself against every noisy footfall as he heads toward where he knows his husband’s waiting. He practices his apology—half groveling, half strangely unapologetic—in his head until he realizes that P.J.’s bedroom door is standing open. He pauses for a moment, fear prickling in his belly, until he hears Clint huff out a breath.

“Not a kidnapper,” he says quietly, and Phil pokes his head into the room to discover Clint sitting on the guest bed, only a few feet from P.J.’s pack-and-play. Their nephew’s regular, even breathing fills the room, and Phil’s nerves immediately retreat. At least, until Clint shakes his head and adds, “Just needed to check on him, you know?”

“Yeah,” Phil agrees, nodding unevenly. He studies Clint’s face in the dim light. “Still pissed?”

Clint snorts. “Might’ve been pissed for a while now.”

“I noticed.” His husband raises his head to glare at him, and he lifts a hand. “Not being snide,” he promises. “Being honest.”

“Feels like a first,” Clint replies tightly, but even in the shadows, his face softens.

An uneasy silence spreads between them for a few seconds, as thick as unyielding as early-morning fog, and Clint casts one last, lingering glance at P.J.’s bed before standing. His expression remains soft and a little lost as he bends down to touch the baby’s belly, and Phil tries hard to ignore sharp twinge in his chest as Clint murmurs a quiet goodnight. As usual, though, the effort fails, and he leans his head back against the beige-painted hallway wall as Clint steps out of the guest room.

He closes the door, and silence blankets them again. Phil swears he hears both their heartbeats.

Finally, Clint shakes his head. “I just don’t get it,” he admits, his body slumping back against the opposite wall. “You’ll ask that girl for help, but you won’t even stop and talk to me. Even after that blow-up at the trailer park, even after everything with Barney and Wade, you just—”

“I never wanted to make it harder for you.” Clint stops mid-sentence, his mouth hanging open even as he frowns, and Phil sighs. “Barney— I know how Barney affects you, Clint. How much you hurt. And the more I watched you struggle, the more I needed to fix it. To lift the burden for you, instead of waiting to see what you needed.” He pauses, watching as Clint crosses his arms—not aggressively, really, but expectantly. “I thought if I dealt with it for you, you’d never need to face it.”

“Except instead, I felt like you weren’t even there.” The words escape as a whisper, barely loud enough to reach across the hallway, and Phil rolls his lips together. He searches for a moment for the right response—not a band-aid or a half-hearted apology, not tonight—but Clint just shakes his head. “I didn’t need you to be some knight in shining armor, Phil. I needed you to be _you_.”

Phil swallows. “I know.”

“Do you, though?”

“I—” Somehow, the sharp edge to Clint’s voice cuts less than the sharp cock of his head, and Phil drags fingers through his thinning mess of hair as he sighs. “I wanted to avoid the hard stuff,” he finally admits, even as his belly clenches and his chest feels tight. “I thought if I solved all the problems and we headed right back to our normal life, we’d never need to have the hard conversations. Talk about Barney, or kids, or—”

“Would’ve rather had the hard conversations. Would’ve rather had a hundred of them if it meant actually talking for once.” 

Clint’s murmur trembles slightly, and the end of Phil’s explanation dries up on the back of his tongue as he watches his husband scrub a hand over his face. For the first time in a long time, he realizes just how many long-ignored elephants crowd the space between them. But more importantly, he also notices just how exhausted Clint looks, how drawn and _lost_ his expression becomes whenever they tear away the window dressing and peer inside. 

Three months, he thinks. He’s walled himself away from every important conversation for three entire months, just like in Denver.

He pushes himself away from the wall.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he says quietly, and Clint draws his mouth into a tight line even as his posture loosens. “I don’t know how to share your hurt instead of trying to eliminate it. I don’t know how to watch you with P.J. and not think about—” His voice sticks in the back of his throat, and he shakes the thought away. “I spent a decade not expecting to share my life with anyone. In a lot of ways, I’m still learning the right way to do it.”

Clint studies his face for a moment, eyes narrowed and lips pursed. “You’re usually pretty okay at it,” he finally says.

The corner of Phil’s mouth twitches without his permission. “Pretty okay?” he repeats.

His husband shrugs. “World’s okayest husband,” he replies blandly, and his expression only softens when Phil snorts a laugh. Still, he unfolds slowly, the tension seeping from him until he finally steps away from the wall. 

They meet in the middle of the hallway, their chests only inches apart. Phil draws in a long, steadying breath. “For what it’s worth,” he starts, his voice still a little uncertain, “I’m—”

Clint shakes his head. “Be sorry later,” he instructs, and he barely leaves Phil enough time to frown before wrapping him up in a hug. For one split second, Phil hesitates, his arms caught somewhere between embracing his husband and nudging him away long enough for an explanation.

Then, he feels the way Clint trembles slightly, and he needs no explanation.

“Okay,” he promises, tangling his fingers through his husband’s hair as he tugs him close. “I can do that.”

 

==

 

“I’m lawyered up, you know,” Barney says the next afternoon.

Phil shrugs. “And I’m not the prosecutor on your case, I’m your brother-in-law.”

The visitation room at the Union County Jail stretches wide and empty, an echo chamber consisting mostly of high, textured ceilings and unfriendly steel tables. In the back corner, a tearful woman clutches her son’s hand, her lilting Spanish murmurs too quiet for Phil to hear. Here, close to the entrance, Barney Barton just crosses his arms.

“Sit,” the guard instructs.

Barney’s jaw twitches, but Phil just settles down on the cold metal bench. “He can be uncomfortable if he wants,” he replies, and reaches for his bag.

His brother-in-law frowns, his brow furrowing until he transforms into a carbon copy of his younger brother, but Phil ignores him as he extracts a single folder. He flips it open and begins carefully arranging bail contracts, records of actions, and inmate in custody rosters across the table. Every last one is a printout from Skye’s spelunking expedition with the relevant pieces of information highlighted.

Even without glancing up, Phil feels Barney’s eyes bearing down on him—and, more importantly, on the fan of papers. “You leave us alone if I promise to behave?” he asks the guard.

A beat of silence passes before the guard retorts, “You gonna sit?”

Barney huffs out a hard breath. “Yeah, sure, I’ll sit,” he grumbles, and drops heavily into the space across from Phil.

The guard lingers for a few, tense seconds before finally walking away. Barney waits until his footfalls fade away to reach for one of the printouts.

Phil flattens his hand across the sheet of paper, pinning it to the table. “Not yet.”

“But—”

He knows from the way Barney’s eyebrows rise—from the surprise on his face, really—just how hard his expression and tone are. He holds them steady. “I’m not ready for you, yet.”

Barney purses his lips and falls silent.

Phil reaches for the next printout.

After recovering from their discussion in the hallway (and, more importantly, from a hug that had warmed Phil right down to his toes), he and Clint had brewed a pot of coffee and transformed their home office into a makeshift command unit for Operation: Uncover Barney’s Involvement in What Appears to be a Criminal Enterprise. “We both know Barney’s not stupid,” he’d explained as the struggling printer spat out page after page of Skye’s research. “He knows some of what’s going on here. We just need to connect the first few dots. Lead him into helping us.”

“Think you might have too much faith in my brother,” Clint’d muttered, half-hidden by his coffee mug.

Phil’d shrugged. “Learned it from you,” he’d replied, and he’d knocked their shoulders together when Clint’d snorted.

They’d drained the coffee pot slowly, pouring over the different print-outs until the fonts had all blurred together and their eyes had ached, but after pausing for a midnight snack, they’d dived back in again. Clint’d sorted and resorted the documents, piling them up according to type (bail contract, corporate registration form, screenshot from a website) only to switch and pile them up according to common elements (Wiltshire Holdings, the unknown David, George Valdez, Ally Henderson). Phil’d tried compiling those common threads into a spreadsheet, his ham-fisted attempt at creating some sort of database to link everything together, but in the end, he’d deleted the file and pulled out a packet of highlighters.

“Pink for Ally,” he’d decided, handing the marker to Clint. “Blue for George, green for David, and yellow—”

“Should I be worried about how many office supplies you keep in this drawer?” Clint’d asked, shaking a half-full box of red, felt-tipped pens. “‘Cause I’m starting to think you’re halfway to an episode of hoarders.”

“Maybe I hoard them because of how often we accidentally wash your pens,” Phil had retorted, and Clint’d laughed as he’d hip-checked the drawer shut.

At one point, Phil’d glanced up from one of the Secretary of State printouts to discover Clint squinting at one of the bail contracts, his brow furrowed and glasses perched low on his nose. For a moment, Phil’d totally forgotten about their task to just watch him, messy-haired and razor-focused as he’d scanned the sheet. 

“I know you’re staring,” Clint’d said as he flipped to the second page.

Phil’d shrugged and reached for his highlighter. “I’m allowed to admire you.”

“Yeah, except you started admiring me a _long_ time before we ended up married.” Phil’d smiled a little at that, and when he’d glanced up from his printout, Clint’d mirrored the expression. “Reminds me of how you used to stare at me when we were working the Killgrave case,” he’d said. “There’s just no dead kid, this time around.”

“No dead kid, but significantly more coffee,” Phil’d replied, and Clint’d knocked their knees together before returning to the printout.

Now, Phil slides that particular document onto the furthest corner of the metal table, acutely aware of the way Barney studies every bright slash of yellow highlighter. For a long moment, silence floods the room, and Phil ignores the uncertainty creeping up his spine. The whole plan relies on Barney understanding the invisible threads between Ally, his co-defendant, and Wiltshire Holdings. Without that—

“Clint coming?” 

The question jerks Phil out of his thoughts, but when he glances across the table, he discovers Barney’s staring at Ally’s bail contract, his expression dull and unreadable. He rolls his lips together. “I know he usually has court and shit on Fridays,” he says, “but since you two are pretty much Siamese twins at this point—”

“It’s just me.” Barney nods unevenly, his gaze never lifting, and Phil leans forward. “Court and shit aside, Clint thought you might not want to talk to him. Especially about all this.” He gestures to the cavern of gray cinderblock surrounding them, and Barney snorts. “We know there’s more going on here than meets the eye, and we know you’re wrapped up in at least some of it. Maybe even in over your head.” Barney shifts slightly, his spine straightening even as he refuses to meet Phil’s eyes. “The question is: where do you want to start?”

A few quiet seconds pass before Barney wets his lips. “Who say I know anything?” 

“Your face, for one.” Barney huffs out a breath and finally tears his eyes away from the bail contract. Phil sighs. “Barney, talk to me. Let us help you. Because otherwise, I’m going to have to turn this over to someone. Wade, at the very least.”

Barney finally jerks his head up. “So?” he challenges, his tone as sharp and hot as the flash of anger that crosses his face. “They’ll know that Ally’s out on bail. That Valdez fucked up with her before he fucked up with me. Not exactly earth-shattering news to a bunch of lawyers.” He shrugs. “And no skin off my nose if they figure it out.”

“Except they’ll also know about Wiltshire Holdings,” Phil reminds him. Barney’s jaw tightens, and for a split second, the anger fades away to something like fear. He slides Ally’s bail contract across the table. “They’ll know there’s something bigger behind this,” he presses, “with the company and David—”

“Davis,” Barney says immediately. Phil blinks, unable to hide his surprise, and his brother-in-law shakes his head at his own accidental honesty. “Don’t know anything about the guy,” he backpedals, “or about the rest of this shit. Just heard through the grapevine that his name is Davis. Maybe.”

“Maybe?” Phil repeats, eyebrow raised.

Barney crosses his arms. “Maybe.”

“You hear anything else?” He shakes his head, his gaze drifting across the printouts, and Phil sighs. “Barney—”

“Listen: no matter what you think you know, you don’t _really_ know anything. You feel me?” Phil frowns, his mouth hanging open slightly, and Barney huffs again as he drags his fingers through his hair. “From where I’m sitting, all you’ve got right now is a couple pieces of paper and a whole lot of maybes. And far as I’m concerned, that’s the most you’re gonna get.” He shrugs. “You wanna show Wilson? Show him. Hell, take it straight up to Murdock, deliver it on a silver platter. Won’t make any difference. Not for them, not for Ally and Valdez, and not for me.”

Phil’s limp jaw finally shuts, almost without his permission, and as silence creeps back across the visiting room, he studies his brother-in-law’s face. Barney never flinches or backs away—truth be told, he hardly even blinks—but the longer Phil stares him down, the more cracks he notices in that façade. Because when Barney swallows, or shifts his weight, or even draws in a long breath, a tiny glimmer of fear passes just behind his eyes, and that glimmer sticks around even after he wets his lips and finally glances away.

Phil waits a few more beats before he says, “You know.”

“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t. Or maybe knowing won’t help. Just like that shit in front of you definitely won’t.” Barney unfolds just long enough to slide the bail contract back into Phil’s fan of papers, his eyes still trained on the nearest empty table. “All that shit,” he says a moment later, his voice quiet, “it’s like the woods. Dark and deep, with people balanced right on the edge of it but knowing they’re fucked if they go in.”

Phil feels his eyes narrow. “I don’t—”

“Dark like Colier Woods,” Barney interrupts, “and just like always: hell if I’m touching that.”

He raises his head at the end of the sentence, the silent punctuation mark on a riddle Phil hardly understands, and for the first time all afternoon, the fear spreads across Barney’s expression. He rolls his lips together, his eyes never leaving Phil’s, but when Phil raises his eyebrows expectantly, he snorts and rolls his eyes. 

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he decides, signaling for the guard.

“I don’t think you do, either,” Phil responds, and in the second before the guard reaches them, he swears Barney nods.

 

==

 

“Like I said yesterday, Nat thinks you’re nuts for not washing your hands of all this. And the longer you let it all rattle around in your head, the more I kinda want to agree.”

Clint rolls P.J.’s favorite ball—bright green and covered with little nubs—between his hands as he talks, and a few feet away, P.J. wriggles impatiently. The more his motor skills improve, the more he wants to drop and push things to see where they go: the remote, his sippy cup, his blocks, the ball. When they’re not careening in her direction, Sandy likes to pounce on the various items. Phil, on the other hand—

“You shouldn’t be encouraging him,” he says as he flips a page in his current case file.

Clint snorts. “We’re working on rolling. Right, kid? _Rolling_.” He demonstrates again, the ball never leaving the ground, and P.J. responds with a growling noise. “See? He knows.”

“He’s mimicking you.”

“And you’re dodging the real issue,” Clint retorts. Phil rolls his lips together, his eyes still trained on his witness notes, and Clint sighs at him. “Deal was that we gave him a chance. He blows the chance, we throw the information at Wade and stop trying to fix Barney’s mess. Work on the rest of this.” He gestures to the living room as a whole, but Phil knows without glancing up that his husband’s eyes never leave their nephew. “Can’t do that if you’re playing the conquering hero.”

Phil swallows. “I know.”

“But?” 

“But I wish you’d save the heart-to-hearts for days when the Cubs are losing.”

Clint barks a laugh even as he rolls his eyes, and P.J. crows in delight as the ball finally bounce-rolls in his direction. He closes his outstretched arms almost a full second before the ball reaches him, but thanks to Clint’s impeccable aim, it nudges one of his chubby legs without rolling away. When he grabs it between his palms, Clint raises a finger at him. “Roll,” he reminds him.

“Rrrrr,” P.J. agrees seriously, squeezing the ball.

Phil snorts at the two of them—and on P.J.’s decision to chew on the ball rather than pushing it back across the rug—and allows his attention to drift back to the television, where the Cubs are, for once, winning against the Pirates. He briefly falls into the rhythm of the game—of the thump of a pitch landing in the catcher’s glove and the cheers that follow—before his eyes drift back to Clint. He sits cross-legged on the floor and wiggles his fingers to grab P.J.’s attention.

P.J. stares at him for a minute, eyes wide and curious, before he just drops the ball into his own lap. “Gah!” he announces, his empty hands high over his head.

Clint huffs out a laugh. “We’ll stick to music lessons, maybe,” he decides, and stretches out to retrieve the ball.

The ball-rolling game continues apace, with P.J. pausing every few minutes to smack the ball with an open hand or chew on some of the little plastic nubs, and Phil watches half-heartedly as his mind replays the last week. Even after their conversation, Barney’s remained steadfast and silent, refusing once again to speak to anyone, Wade included. 

“He’s like one of those guys from _The Hunger Games_ ,” Wade’d said at one point, balancing P.J. on his hip with one hand and drinking a beer with the other. “You know, with their tongues cut out? Aviatrixes, or whatever.”

“Pretty sure that’s not the word,” Clint’d replied.

“Maybe, but since you won’t even _consider_ reading them, I’m allowed to mispronounce all the names. Like Kantniss and Preecha.” Clint’d rolled his eyes, and Phil’d hidden his smirk behind his own drink. “Anyway, that’s not the important part of this conversation.”

“Really?” Phil’d asked.

“Do you want me to flip you the bird while I’m holding your rented baby? Because I can totally provide that service, but when he’s voted off the island at daycare . . . ” He’d started to lift his middle finger off his bottle, but P.J.’d reached out and grabbed it. Wade’d grinned. “Never mind. You clearly already know what you’re doing. Embarrassing your not-quite-parents way ahead of schedule.”

Clint’d sighed. “Did you have a point?”

Wade’d stopped bouncing P.J., his brow furrowing. Phil’d raised an eyebrow. “Barney,” he’d reminded the other man.

“Oh, right! My point: Barney’s still not talking. About anything. And with his preliminary hearing right around the corner . . . ”

He’d trailed off with nothing more than an exaggerated shrug, and Clint’d hidden his muttered curses behind his own beer bottle. Phil, for his part, had rolled his lips together. “You think he’ll come around?” he’d asked.

Wade’d swigged his beer. “With most defendants, I’d say yes,” he’d replied after a beat. “With Barney? I have less than no idea, and that’s the optimistic over-under.”

“Sounds like Barney,” Clint’d grumbled, and they’d ended the conversation there. Except when Wade’d prepared to leave, his worn bag slung over his shoulder and his shirt slightly stained by baby food, Clint’d lingered on the front stoop. “I wanna see you again Monday,” he’d said. “Maybe give you something to help you out.”

Wade’d cocked his head to one side. “With Hope’s science project, or—”

“With Barney,” Clint’d cut him off. “How the hell would I help with a kid’s science project?”

“Hey, you work in mysterious ways,” Wade’d replied with a tiny grin, and Clint’d promptly pushed him off the stoop.

Now, in the middle of their Saturday afternoon, the folder of printouts sits on the corner of the coffee table, waiting for a new owner.

“He’s not stupid,” Phil says without really thinking about it, and Clint frowns as he glances away from the television. “I know you think the worst about Barney right now—and he’s definitely earned it—but he’s never willfully obtuse. Not like this.” He leans back against the couch cushions and shakes his head. “That’s why I keep thinking about it, why I expect him to suddenly crawl out of the woodwork with answers. Because he’s not dumb enough to fall on a sword that’s not his.”

“Unless he’s falling on Ally’s sword,” Clint points out. He frowns slightly. “That sounds like a euphemism for something I don’t want to think about.”

“This from the man who regularly falls on my—” Clint smacks him lightly in the knee and promptly rolls his eyes when Phil smiles innocently. When he tips his head against the front of the couch, though, Phil threads fingers through his hair. “He knows something.”

“Probably, yeah,” Clint admits, and Phil frowns at the resignation that creeps into his voice. “But we’re not gonna be able to fix that. Or to pull it out of him, no matter how much we want to.” Phil shakes his head, ready to look away, but his husband catches his gaze. “You can’t be in three places at once, boss. Home and work, that’s enough for us to handle right now. You throw in Barney’s bullshit, and I might never see you again.”

Phil snorts. “No need to be dramatic.”

“Meant it metaphorically, and you know it.” When he glances back to the television screen, Clint shifts just enough to rest his temple against his knee. “This shit heap’s like a swamp. Dark, deep, and no coming out of it. Better to hand it off to Wade and forget about it.”

Despite himself, a tiny smile nudges at the corner of Phil’s mouth. “Deep like Colier Woods,” he murmurs, mostly to himself.

“What?” 

The surprise in Clint’s voice catches him off guard, and he jerks himself away from a hard double by one of the Pirates to discover Clint frowning slightly, his eyes narrowed. Phil shrugs. “Barney mentioned something about the woods when we talked. Called them dark and deep and said nobody ever wanted to venture inside.”

Clint laughs a little as he rescues P.J.’s ball from under the coffee table. “Only ‘cause of his asshole friends,” he replies. When Phil raises an eyebrow, he waves him off. “Way back, Ricky and Trey started this rumor about Colier Woods. Told all the kids who grew up in the trailer park that ghosts and ghouls hung out in there. That you’d never come out of it alive. Even freaked me and Barney out, back when we first moved in with Trick.” He pauses to shake his head. “Man, I’d forgotten about that. You said Barney brought it up when you talked to him?”

“Just briefly, but yeah.”

Clint snorts. “Steering you off the subject as usual,” he grumbles, and Phil watches as he bounces P.J.’s ball for a few idle seconds. “Stuff goes to Wade on Monday,” he says, his eyes searching Phil’s face. “No more detective work. Yeah?”

“Monday,” Phil agrees, and Clint smiles.

 

==

 

“Clint might actually kill me for this,” Phil mutters to himself as he locks the car behind him. “Quicker and easier than a divorce, and all with the added benefit of my life insurance pay-out.”

The dusty path that runs through the Colier Woods Trailer Park says nothing.

Phil tips his head into the morning sun, listening as a fall wind ruffles the leaves and wondering, just for a second, whether he shouldn’t just jump in in his car and drive home. Well, to the grocery store first, because they need milk and bananas.

Then, he glances back at his car—or rather, at the thick file folder on the passenger’s seat—and shakes his head.

“He’ll probably bury my body here, just for irony’s sake,” he tells no one in particular, and heads down the path toward Barney’s trailer.

Even now, he remembers his first visit to the park over two years ago like snippets to a favorite old song: the blaring summer heat, the shouts of children playing in the clearings, the grainy murmur of a distant radio. Back then, the trailer park had reminded him of the neighborhood he grew up in back in Wisconsin, a loud and vibrant community bursting with life.

Now, he studies the dusty, broken window of a trailer with a bright-pink notice on the front door. Under a date and a statutory citation, it clearly reads _ABANDONED_ , the bold, block letters clear even ten feet away. Phil climbs the rickety steps up to the door and studies the city inspector’s messy signature at the bottom of the notice.

Inside, curtains hang crookedly, half-hiding a hole in the interior wall. One corner of the faded, well-worn carpet curls up away from the baseboard, and the oven door hangs by a single hinge.

Phil frowns and climbs back down the stairs.

The next few trailers he passes also boast bright pink city notices, the sign of a modern ghost town. He squints at broken windows and loose siding, steps over the remnants of an awning torn away from a window, and scans intently for signs of life. On one corner, just behind one of the enormous new management signs scattered throughout the park, the curtain of bright blue trailer twitches. Phil cranes his neck in an attempt to see inside—to catch the owner’s eye, maybe, his own kind of a welfare check—but the curtain never moves again. 

When he rounds the trailer, he discovers that several of the rear windows are boarded up.

“I don’t even know what I’m doing here,” he reminds himself, shaking his head as he continues through the empty paths toward Barney’s trailer. He’d spent the night before lying awake, tracing and retracing the invisible links between Ally, Barney, George Valdez, and Wiltshire Holdings, but like grains of sand, every possible revelation slipped through his fingers and left him empty-handed. 

Next to him, Clint’d grumbled in his sleep, tossing and turning until Phil had finally slid into his space and slung an arm across his stomach. “Hear you thinking,” he’d murmured, his voice sleep-muddled even as he’d tipped his head against Phil’s hair.

“I’ll be sure to report your telepathy to Fury in the morning,” Phil’d replied, and Clint’d smiled against his scalp.

Now, Phil rubs the tension from his forehead as he walks, the same handful of facts from Skye’s research rolling through his head on the worst kind of auto-repeat. He’s still not sure what he expects to find at Barney’s trailer, although he hopes for a blinking neon arrow pointing to a clue. Or, better still, the same arrow pointing to a dead end, a sure sign that the folder in his car belongs with Wade and not with him and Clint.

He stops in front of Barney’s trailer—still standing, still unblemished, a dying breed in the nearly abandoned park—and sighs. “You’re not a very good detective,” he mutters to himself.

“Probably depends on what you’re detecting, Mister Coulson.”

Unlike a few months ago, Phil recognizes Anissa Silva’s voice before he even glances over his shoulder, and the woman smiles politely as she steps up beside him. She wears a worn-out pair of sweatpants and a loose t-shirt, her hair up in a scarf, and Phil automatically smiles back.

At least until he notices the dark circles under her eyes and the loose slump of her shoulders.

And, maybe more tellingly, the three enormous trash bags piled up behind her.

“Can I help?” he asks, nodding at the trash bags. Immediately, her smile disappears, her expression turning stormy. “Sorry,” he says quickly, “I just wanted—”

“No, I—” Anissa says at roughly the same time, and they both fall silent. Phil rolls his lips together as Anissa tucks a strand of loose hair behind her ear. “I’m sorry,” she finally replies. “I assumed you were here to help move Barney. Or to move his things for him, since Trey said he might be locked up.”

“Move?” Phil blurts, eyebrows raised. She nods unevenly. “Is that why this place is like a ghost town? People are moving out?”

Anissa rolls her eyes. “Like anybody really has a choice.” Phil blinks at her, his brow furrowing, and she stops short. She cocks her head to the side before asking, “Barney didn’t tell you?”

Phil snorts. “Barney’s not exactly talking to Clint and me at the moment.”

“Sounds like both the Barton boys to me,” Anissa replies, and for a brief second, a smile nudges at the corner of her mouth. She eyes the bags behind her. “Help me bring these to the dumpster, and I’ll tell you what I know. It’s not much, but—”

He raises his hands. “Not much is more than nothing. Especially when you’re dealing with a radio-silent brother-in-law.”

“He’s Barney. He’ll only stay radio silent until he really needs you.” Phil almost laughs at the absolute truth in her statement as she hands him a bag. “He’s locked up?”

“Yeah,” Phil confirms.

“But paying rent for his lot, right? Or at least, somebody is.”

“Clint and I started paying for him when he dropped off the map. The last thing anyone needed was for him to be evicted from the property.” Anissa nods as she slings a bag over her shoulder, and Phil narrows his eyes. “Why? What am I missing?”

“It’s nothing you’re missing, it’s—” she begins, but her voice catches for a moment. She shakes her head, almost like chasing away cobwebs, and starts in the direction of the dumpsters. Phil follows. “Back around the first of the year, this company sent us all letters,” she says after a moment. “Said it bought up the trailer park, wanted to make it more modern. And that made sense to most of us. A lot of the people here live in trailers their parents bought years ago, like with Barney staying after Trick died.”

“Barney’d cringe to hear you calling Trick Chisholm his parent,” Phil points out.

“Oh, Trick’s definitely not good enough for the ground he’s buried in, but he still passed the trailer down to Barney.” Phil snorts a laugh, and Anissa smiles. “The new managers filled us with promises. New parking lots, better roads between the trailers, a playground . . . You name it.” She shakes her head. “And the second we started trusting them, they stabbed us right in the back.”

He frowns. “Meaning?”

“Meaning that the Colonial Investment Group is a bunch of fucking liars.” The venom in her voice catches Phil off guard, and he flinches slightly as she violently spikes her garbage bags into the dumpster. She brushes hair out of her face and breathes deeply before facing him again. “All of a sudden, they started raising the rental fees on the lots. A little at first, not enough that anybody complained, but the numbers kept growing. Climbing past how much an apartment costs. Enough that your mortgage, it’s probably less than staying here for a month.” She huffs out a breath as she hauls the other bag into the dumpster. “And the second people started struggling to pay, all the policies the old management had about late fees disappeared. Zero tolerance, right away.”

Phil drops his bag into the dumpster before studying her face. “Did you sign new contracts?”

She shakes her head. “The old policies weren’t written down. All our contracts say there’s a zero tolerance policy, the old managers just understood what it’s like when you’re maybe scraping by a little.” She deflates slightly, her hands falling to her hips. “Forced a lot of people out.”

Phil peers out at the nearest row of trailers and counts four pink notices. His stomach clenches slightly as he asks, “Can people at least sell their trailers?”

Anissa snorts and gestures to the nearest home. “Look at them and tell me if you can sell them,” she says, and Phil knows what he’s about to see even before he glances over. A significant chunk of siding hangs off one of the exterior walls, and he quickly counts four broken windows. “Even if their owners still hadn’t signed over their titles,” she continues quietly, “nobody’d want to buy something so broken.”

“You’re probably right,” Phil responded, “but— Wait. Signed over their titles?”

She nods, never glancing away from the nearly dilapidated trailer just a few feet from them. “The new management took people to court,” she says after a few beat. “Sued them for back rent, for noise violations, for all these things that never used to be a problem.” Her eyes flick back to Phil, and the hopelessness that crosses her expression almost chokes him. “Everyone they sued got offered the same deal: sign over the trailer and move out, and the case disappears. And if you fought . . . ”

She gestures to the sea of broken, empty trailers. Phil tries counting them all, but he stops when the total reaches more than a dozen. Anissa just sighs. “I tried talking to a lawyer,” she admits, “but how do you live with broken windows and the threat of worse? Trey and his wife, they lost access to water. I couldn’t—”

Her voice wavers dangerously, and Phil swallows around the thick feeling in the back of his throat. He glances between her sloppy clothes and the dumpster for a moment before he guesses, “You’re moving out.”

“I have an aunt, in Texas. She offered for _Mamá_ and me to stay. Like starting over.” She snorts softly. “ _Mamá_ keeps saying it’s good. A chance to leave everything that’s happened here, all the bad memories, behind. And she’s maybe right, but Jordan . . . ” She rolls her lips together and glances away, her face tipped up toward the trees. “I can’t stop thinking that I’m leaving Jordan to the wolves, somehow.”

Phil nods offhandedly, the silence washing over them as they stand and watch the sunlight filtering down through the trees. For a moment, he imagines someone forcing him out of his little house on his quiet street, cornering him into an involuntary fresh start. But even in that ridiculous, impossible scenario, he thinks, he’d still have Clint at his side.

Clint and maybe P.J., his mind needles, and he shakes the thought away.

“I know an attorney at legal aid,” he says without thinking, and Anissa jerks out of her thoughts to blink up at him. “He’s a defense attorney, but I think some of his coworkers handle landlord-tenant disputes. I might be able to talk to him, see if there’s a way—”

Anissa touches his arm, her fingers warm and soft, and Phil knows her answer even before she shakes her head. “It’s too late for me, Mister Coulson. I already agreed to leave. Really, at this rate, the only person you can maybe help is Barney.”

Phil barely resists his urge to roll his eyes. “You remember the part where Barney wants nothing to do with us right now, don’t you?” 

Her mouth twists into a tiny smile. “I can’t imagine you or Clint letting that last for very long,” she replies.

Phil walks her back to her trailer—bright yellow and surrounded by flower beds, still beautiful despite three broken windows and a missing air conditioning unit—before heading to his car, this time acutely aware of every pink notice from the city and, more tellingly, every _new management_ sign. By the time he returns to visitor parking, he’s flicking through Google results for the Colonial Investment Group, trying desperately to uncover a contact number or at least a reliable website. Most the top links are newspaper articles praising the group’s construction projects across the state. One calls the CEO “a mastermind of urban redevelopment” but somehow avoids his name entirely.

It’s not until Phil’s sitting in his car, engine running and an old episode of _This American Life_ droning in the background, that he discovers an article with a final sentence that stops his heart entirely:

_Colonial Investment Group is a wholly owned subsidiary of Wiltshire Holdings, LLC._

 

==

 

The storm door bangs shut behind him when he storms into the house fifteen minutes later, his blood rushing through his head like a tsunami. Stretched out on the couch in front of _Meet the Press_ , Clint blinks and rubs his eyes. 

“Wha?” he asks, still half asleep.

On his lap, P.J. grumbles and hides his face with an arm.

Phil ignores them and the relentless thrumming of his pulse to walk into the kitchen and retrieve his iPad. One by one, he flicks open the browser tabs saved on his cell phone: the newspaper article with that fateful final sentence, a handful of other articles about the Colonial Investment Group’s redevelopment campaign, filings from the Secretary of State’s office proving that Colonial and three different companies with almost identical names all link back to Wiltshire Holdings. He scans through the information one more time, his head still swimming.

Because the company that bailed Ally and George Valdez out of jail links to the company that owns the trailer park. Links to Barney and P.J., to their whole _life_ , and to the campaign of terror chasing Anissa and dozens of others from their homes.

“Boss?”

Phil jerks his head up to discover his sleep-creased husband standing in the doorway, their nephew on his hip. In that moment, that one split-second, Phil forgets everything from that afternoon to admire how _right_ his husband looks with mussed hair and a baby in his arms, and his heart aches. And because of long-repressed hope or a desperate love for P.J, either, but because he knows, somehow, that P.J.’s only with them because of the Gordian knot he’s still trying to untangle.

Because of Colonial Investment Group, Wiltshire Holdings, and the impossible threads that tie them all together.

He draws in a deep breath. “I think I know how Ally and Barney link back to Wiltshire Holdings.”

Clint rolls his lips together, his throat bobbing. “Okay,” he says, and reaches for the iPad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Impressive list: secured transactions with a side of family law, commercial paper, torts: independent contractors, corporations, property with a side of contracts, wills and trusts, constitutional law: first amendment, constitutional law: commerce clause, family law: pre- and post-nuptial agreements, professional responsibility, evidence, civil procedure. There were four more where those came from, but I don’t remember all sixteen anymore.


	12. A Cog in the Big, Rotten Wheel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, heaven helps those who help themselves. Well, technically, legal aid helps those who bring entire file folders of information into a conference room, but the rest of the help comes from less familiar sources.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thanks as always to my beta-readers, Jen and saranoh, who are as loyal and true as any friends the world has to offer. Or something equally emotional for the holidays.

“Wade, you’re literally breathing down my neck.”

Franklin Nelson (Foggy to his friends, at least according to Wade) says this without ever glancing up from his laptop screen, but Wade still blinks a half-dozen times before he finally backs away by about six inches. Despite the size of the new legal aid conference room—including a huge oak table, enormous flat-screen television, and twelve brand-new swivel chairs—Wade sits close enough to his coworker that their elbows brush continually. Or rather, close enough that Wade continually rubs his elbow against Foggy’s without permission.

Phil glances over at Clint, who shrugs noncommittally. At the end of the table, however, Kate Bishop rolls her eyes. “Does your husband know where you are right now?” she asks Wade.

Wade flops back in his chair hard enough that the plastic joints creak. “Nate totally knows the value of a quality work spouse,” he answers haughtily. “In fact, we put together a whole system where he’s work-married to Emma and sometimes Wanda, and I’m work-married to the Fog Machine over here.”

He claps Foggy on the shoulder, and Foggy finally raises his head just enough to frown at him. “I’m not your work spouse. I’m pretty sure I’m not even your back-up work spouse.”

Wade’s scowls, his shoulders slumping. “Not even mincing your hurtful words today, Foggirito?”

“Hurtful, but accurate,” Kate points out. Wade whips his head (and chair) around to glare at her, and she shrugs. “Like Nate said last week, part of my job is tethering you to reality.”

Wade jabs an accusatory finger in her direction. “Nate only said that because of the figure skater thing, and you know it.” Phil cocks an eyebrow at Clint, who mouths _no idea_ while shaking his head. Wade, on the other hand, just keeps glaring at Kate. “Why are you here, anyway? Besides to rain on my parade and squash my dreams.”

“Uh, I’m here to collate mailers so you and the rest of the real attorneys don’t have to?” She gestures to the mounds of half-folded brochures that clutter up her end of the table. Wade wrinkles his nose at them—and, presumably, at Kate’s smug little smirk. “What about you? Do _you_ need to be here?” 

“Yes,” Wade says immediately.

“Except probably not,” Foggy corrects, and Wade’s face falls.

Clint snorts at Wade’s overwrought pouting, a smile touching the corners of his mouth, and Phil can’t help his own tiny grin as he flips a page in the now-infamous file folder. Last night, they’d meticulously added new documents to the collection, reviewing and printing dozens of newspaper articles about Colonial Investment Group and other, associated entities. 

At one point, Clint’d actually stopped reloading the printer tray to run his fingers through his hair. “How many tentacles do these companies have?” he’d wondered aloud.

Phil’d removed a highlighter from P.J.’s grasp before shaking his head. “I don’t know,” he’d admitted. “They almost feel like a hydra. Cut one head off—” 

“Two pop up,” Clint’d finished for him, rolling his eyes. “Nerd.”

“Says the man with an annotated collection of Robin Hood stories on the nightstand,” Phil’d retorted, and a minute later, P.J.’d crowed at the paper airplane that’d crash landed the side of his uncle’s head.

Phil’s usual Monday routine had flown by, a blur of court hearings and witness meetings counting down to their inevitable afternoon appointment at the legal aid office. For his part, Clint had hidden his nerves behind easy laughter and casual bravado until Natasha’d scowled at him at their group lunch. 

“Squeeze my shoulder one more time, and I’ll break your hand,” she’d warned, jabbing him in the chest with a fountain pen.

Clint’d avoided in her in the hallway, after that.

But all of Clint’s bluster had dissipated like steam the second the Regional Legal Aid Office’s gleaming front windows had appeared in the windshield. He’d fidgeted awkwardly, his fingers drumming against the file folder on his lap, and worried his bottom lip between his teeth. Phil’d waited until they pulled into a parking space before turning toward him. “If you’d rather sit on this, now that we know about Colonial, we can—”

“No,” Clint’d interrupted, immediately shaking his head. He’d huffed out a breath and met Phil’s eyes. “No, we need somebody with more tricks up their sleeves than us and a computer girl. ‘Cause if this really runs deep as it looks—”

Phil’d nodded. “We need all the help we can get.”

Except thanks to the new-and-improved legal aid office (which also included expensive coffee and leather couches in the vestibule), Wade Wilson’d constituted their first stop on the road to useful help.

“You really need Foggy,” he’d said after Clint’s preliminary explanation. He’d swung his legs off his desk and grinned. “Foggy’s a genius. Maybe not the card-carrying kind, since he screws up the Jumble puzzle every time he snags the comic section but—”

“Wait, hang on,” Clint’d interrupted, holding up a hand. “Foggy?”

“Yeah. Well, Franklin, technically. But Nate’s middle name is _technically_ something super boring, so who really cares about technicalities?” Wade’d waved a dismissive hand before springing to his feet. “Foggy’s our housing guru. Knows just about everything you need to know about landlord-tenant law, most of it right off the top of his head. Including how, when you’re married, you’re not a tenant even if you’re not on your husband’s house title yet.”

Phil’d raised an eyebrow. “You asked him that?”

Wade’d shrugged. “Gotta know your rights,” he’d replied, and ushered them out of his office.

Now, with introductions finished and Foggy reviewing Skye’s jump drive of relevant information, Wade swivels his chair back and forth lazily. The room is fairly quiet, aside from Foggy’s occasional touchpad clicks and Kate folding mailers at the end of the table, and for a moment, Phil finds peace in this strange meeting of the minds.

At least, until Wade narrows his eyes at Foggy. “Hey, question,” he says.

Foggy sighs. “Yes, Wade?”

“You know that guy who writes those angry letters to the editor? The ones about how the war on drugs and the militarization of American police really all trickles back to hurting people in poverty?” Wade tosses a glance across the table to Clint and Phil. “They’re pretty good,” he adds, obviously for their benefit. “Sort of like Union County’s own masked vigilante. You know, if vigilantes wrote mean letters and kept getting banned from the newspaper’s online forums.”

Foggy casts his eyes at the ceiling, almost as though he’s praying. “I know about the letters, but I don’t know why you’re—”

“Do you ever think Murdock might be the one writing them?”

Despite Wade’s needling tone (and never minding the way he cranes his head into Foggy’s personal space), Foggy never cracks a smile. If anything, his expression hardens. “Nope,” he answers quickly.

Wade frowns. “But—”

“Just like when you asked if Matt secretly knew kung-fu, the answer is a definite nope.” Wade wrinkles his nose, obviously ready to argue, and Foggy drags a hand through his shaggy hair. “Tell you what,” he says, glancing at Wade. “If you agree to leave us alone for half an hour, I will do you one favor.”

Wade’s eyebrows shoot up. “For free?”

“As much as I’ll probably regret saying this: yes. For free.”

Wade purses his lips and bounces a little in his swivel chair, his eyes tracing Foggy’s face almost as though he’s searching for a tell. Finally, he crosses his arms. “Be my lunch date next week while Nate’s handling that federal case,” he decides.

Foggy mutters something under his breath that, from Phil’s vantage point, looks remarkably like _god give me strength_. Eventually, though, he sighs. “One lunch date,” he agrees.

And even though he cringes when Wade leaps up to kiss him on the top of the head, he holds back the frustrated head-shake and groan until the conference door slams shut behind him. “I’m sorry,” he says, glancing across the table. “Wade’s actually a great lawyer, but too many espressos and he turns a little—”

Phil smiles. “No need to apologize,” he promises, holding up a hand. “We know all of Wade’s quirks. Most of them from experience.”

Kate snorts. “Only because Barton hangs out with him, like, voluntarily.”

Surprise flashes across Foggy’s face, but Clint just shrugs. “Met him just after I started a new job. Didn’t have many friends. The first, best offer sounded pretty good, back then.”

“Yeah, except Foggy wants to hear about your weird relationship with Wade,” Kate retorts, “not how you ended up with Coulson.”

When Phil shoots her his best wounded look, she shrugs.

At least, until Clint bounces a paperclip off her nose with one well-timed finger flick.

She grumbles and swears, her hand flying up to her face, and for the first time that afternoon, Foggy laughs. He shakes his head a little, almost as though he’s just realized the low-level lunacy that surrounds him, and finally leans back in his chair. Without the laptop hiding his face, Phil notices immediately notices the shrewdness hidden behind his soft smile.

He proves it when he asks, “Why are you here?”

At Phil’s shoulder, Clint frowns. “We said—”

“I know what you said. Your brother lives in a mobile home park that’s turning into a ghost town. You think his criminal charges might be related.” His waits until they both nod to cross his arms over his chest. “But you _also_ walked in with a file folder full of documents and a thumb drive. Not how my ‘family member in need of help’ referrals usually start.”

“You’re surprised two attorneys did some preliminary digging?” Phil asks.

“I’m surprised two attorneys with close to twenty years of experience between them brought this case to legal aid, yeah.” Phil blinks involuntarily, and next to him, Clint stops toying with his pen cap. Foggy shrugs. “I googled you.”

“You know I could’ve given you their life story, right?” Kate asks from behind her ever-growing mountain of freshly folded pamphlets. “Including but not limited to how they almost split up over a prosecutor from Denver.”

Clint groans. “For the last time, that’s not—” Phil glances at him, eyebrow raised, and Clint huffs out a hard breath. “That’s not _totally_ what happened,” he grumbles.

Foggy grins. “When I want information besides what law schools they attended, I’ll keep you in mind.” Kate tosses her ponytail in presumed victory, and he waits for her to resume collating before looking back across the table. “You’re capable of handling this on your own,” he says. “Probably with your eyes closed and all four of your hands tied behind your backs. I don’t know why you need me.”

“We’re not really experts in housing law,” Clint points out.

“No, but you’re a former legislative researcher,” Foggy counters. “You can read statutes as well as I can. Probably better.” Clint almost smiles at that, but Foggy just leans back in his chair to study them. “I’m not saying I don’t want to help. I’d heard rumors of something fishy going on over there. Bought a lot of cigars and Reuben sandwiches to try and find an in. But people are universally spooked.” He shakes his head slightly. “I just want to understand why your brother _isn’t_.”

Clint drops his eyes to the packet of paperwork in front of him, his lips rolling into a tight, thin line. When he glances over at Phil, Phil just shrugs. He nods unevenly, his thumbnail still picking at his pen cap. After a few uncomfortably silent seconds, he sighs. “My brother’s probably scared too,” he admits.

Foggy’s brow crumples. “But how—”

“Barney won’t talk to us. Not about his criminal cases, and not about anything on that.” Phil gestures slightly toward the flash drive poking out of the back of Foggy’s computer, and Foggy nods unevenly. “Everything we know—which obviously isn’t very much—came from other sources. A colleague of ours gathered most of it.”

Clint snorts. “And by colleague, he means his brand-new baby protégé.”

“Uh, what?” Kate demands, and Phil swears he hears hurt seeping into her tone. “Since when is there room in your lives for _two_ protégés?”

“Kate,” Foggy warns, and Kate screws up her face in disgust before returning to her pamphlets. For a moment, the only sound in the room is her shuffling papers and the quiet hum of Foggy’s laptop. 

Finally, Foggy scrubs a hand through his hair and leans his arms on the table. “You know I can’t open a case if your brother’s not part of it, right? Even with you paying his rent, he’s the one the lot’s leased to. Without a cooperating plaintiff—”

“You really think there’s enough in front of you to do anything?” 

Clint keeps his tone steady and serious even as his white-knuckled grip on his pen reveals just how much turmoil brews under the surface. All at once, Phil realizes how quiet he’s been through the meeting, how stoically he’s held himself. Like always, all his emotions churn just out of sight.

Phil touches his knee under the table, and Clint’s jaw unclenches slightly. For the first time, all of Clint’s pent-up concern—about Barney _and_ about their little detective routine—seeps out, and he runs his fingers through his hair. “Even if everything in that folder turns out to be as bad as it looks,” he tells Foggy, “nothing’s really _wrong_ with it. At most, some guy’s bailing people out of jail using a company that also evicts other people out of a shitty trailer park. And you only end up there if you buy all these half-formed connections between David and Wiltshire and Colonial . . . ”

He waves a hand at the file in front of them as he trails off, and Foggy spends a few seconds worrying his lower lip. Finally, he asks, “You don’t buy it?”

Clint sighs. “I do, but—” His voice sticks a little, his throat bobbing, and he flicks a helpless little side glance in Phil’s direction. Phil raises his eyebrows, unsure what exactly Clint needs from him, and Clint shakes his head even as he bumps their knees together under the table. Phil almost smiles. “My brother fucked up,” Clint continues, a little quitter this time. “Whether you connect everything back to whatever’s going on at the park or not, he broke the law. Betrayed a lot of people’s trust along with it. But if somebody who knows this stuff—not just the law, but the inner workings, the practical shit you can’t google—looks into this, maybe finds an answer . . . ” He shrugs. “Barney’s no saint. He won’t ever be. But he might own up and help fix this if somebody lays it all out in front of him. If we snitch for him, instead of the other way around.”

Phil frowns slightly. “You think this boils down to him not wanting to snitch?” he asks.

Clint huffs out a hard breath. “Where we’re from, selling out the guys you run with is worse than sleeping with all their wives at the same time.”

At the end of the table, Kate mutters something that sounds suspiciously similar to _like you would know_ , but she also snaps her mouth shut the second Foggy shoots her a warning half-glare. But as soon as she returns to work, his expression softens into something thoughtful. He glances at the computer screen for a moment before finally shaking his head. “I’m not an investigator,” he finally says, a tiny hint of disbelief creeping into his voice. “We don’t even _have_ investigators on staff. I’m half-convinced some of the new people work for experience. Making heads or tails of this mess . . . ”

He snorts a tiny laugh, and Clint mouth twitches like he’s fighting against a frown. “So you’re not gonna help?”

“Did I say that?” Confusion creeps across Clint’s face as it settles into Phil’s belly, but Foggy just raises a hand. “I don’t know what to make of most of this,” he admits, “and I am clueless about the interplay between bail and shell companies and— I mean, frankly, I think you’d need a firm like Cramer and March to unravel nine-tenths of this nightmare, and I usually only bring those guys up when I need a scapegoat for global warming.” Clint huffs, almost laughing, and Foggy finally smiles. “But here’s the thing: that newspaper article, the one linking the mobile home park’s owners to Wiltshire Holdings? I know the author, Ben Urich. He’s a good guy and a pretty straight shooter. And he might know how the puzzle pieces all fall together.”

Despite Foggy’s triumphant little grin, Phil raises an eyebrow. “You know a reporter well enough to pump him for information?”

The grin immediately transforms into a tiny cringe. “Well—”

“His girlfriend knows Ben.” Clint and Phil both jerk their heads up to discover Kate standing behind them, her arms full of neatly folded pamphlets. From the gleeful twinkle in her eye, Phil suspects that Foggy’s glaring at her again. “What? Karen will be knee-deep in this case the second you tell her about it. They should probably know that you _love_ her.”

She transforms the last two words into a truly juvenile sing-song, and across the table, Foggy’s face flares bright red. “I don’t—” he protests helplessly, but Kate cuts him off by whistling “Love and Marriage” as loudly as possible. He waits until she literally skips out of the conference room to say, “I’m pretty sure she’s finished with her community service hours, if you’re interested in some free labor.”

Phil grins. “I’m pretty sure she’d commit another felony to keep Clint from being her boss.”

Clint shoots him the type of offended look usually reserved for when Tony suggests his pants are too tight, and Foggy’s blush recedes as he laughs. At least, until Clint pauses long enough to narrow his eyes across the table. “If you’re dating somebody named Karen, then the whole thing with you and Murdock—”

“Oh, no. No, _that_ is a conversation I will only have after half a bottle of tequila and only if somebody else is buying.” Clint blinks for a moment before actually laughing, the greatest sound Phil’s heard all week, and Foggy grins at both of them as he flips open his legal pad. “Until then, let’s start back at the beginning.”

 

==

 

Late that night, Phil reads the same sentence thirty-seven times in a row.

Okay, thirty-seven is probably hyperbole, but in the oppressive quiet of their bedroom, his brain refuses to focus enough to actually process the words in front of him. He squints at the paragraph, pushes his glasses up to rub his eyes, and shifts his position, but nothing helps.

Next to him, Clint lays on his side, his whole body tipped away from Phil. Every few minutes, Phil stops to listen to him breathe, half-convinced he’s finally nodded off. But every time, Clint sighs or shifts, grumbles to himself or fluffs his pillow, and Phil knows he’s still awake.

Awake, and fighting with his own thoughts.

He glances at his book one more time before asking, “You want to talk?”

Clint’s shoulders bunch slightly under his worn-out t-shirt, but just like last time Phil spoke to him (asking about the overhead light), he remains still and silent. The whole night, really, is colored by that silence, by the distance that’d opened up between them the second they’d walked out of the legal aid office and into the glare of the setting autumn sun. To his credit, Clint’d plastered on an easy smile the second they’d picked P.J. up from daycare, tickling and teasing him until he’d hiccupped with laughter, but Phil’d barely needed to glance at his husband to notice the cracks in his façade. And every time P.J.’d abandoned his uncle for something else—the cat, his dinner, a needy cuddle with Phil—all of Clint’s infectious laughter had immediately dropped away, replaced by something darker.

“If you’re not okay with what we’re doing—” Phil’d started as they’d finished loading the dishwasher, but Clint’d cut him off with a shake of his head. He’d also expertly avoided eye contact. “Something’s obviously bothering you, and if it’s—”

“It’s fine.” Phil’d frowned slightly, watching as his husband’d shaken his head a second time, like clearing away cobwebs. “I’m fine.”

He’d thrown all his energy into P.J.’s bedtime routine, after that, dressing him in his pajamas and reading to him until he’d started to nod off. And after they’d kissed P.J. goodnight and tucked him into his (still temporary) bed, Clint’d snuck off for a searing hot shower that’d filled their bedroom (and part of the hallway) with steam.

Now, he lies with his back to Phil, his hair still damp and his body perfectly still.

Phil tries his book one more time, but the words all jumble together. He sighs. “Clint, I know you’re awake. We might as well—”

“I don’t know what to say about it.” He holds his voice soft, almost a murmur, and Phil ignores the tightness in his throat as he finally closes his book. “Thought about it all night, and I still don’t know how to put it into words.”

Phil nods a little. “The situation, or how you’re feeling?”

His husband snorts. “How about both?” He rolls over onto his back and scrubs one hand over his face. “I wanna do the right thing, but the more I think about bringing Foggy in—about sticking our fingers in everything with the trailer park and Ally—I just . . . ” He trails off with a head shake, his eyes trained on the ceiling. “Life’s not a Perry Mason episode, you know? Not everything ties up into a pretty bow.”

Something deep in Phil’s stomach, some fear response he’s avoided all day, clenches. He sets his book on the bedside table and crosses his arms. “You’re afraid something might blow up in our faces,” he guesses.

“Or that nobody finds the fucking bottom of this mess.”

Phil frowns, partially in confusion and partially at the bitterness in Clint’s voice, but Clint just shakes his head. “We dig, Skye digs, Foggy digs— What if nothing comes out of all this digging, Phil? What if, after everything, Barney still ends up spending most his life locked up and P.J. misses out on his dad?”

The last question hangs heavily between them, and as quickly as Phil opens his mouth with an answer, he closes it again. Despite the thousand scenarios in his head—the contingencies, the back-up plans, the rousing eleventh-hour victories—he’s never really stopped to consider the most obvious outcome, the one where they absolutely _lose_. Even when he stops to fantasize about P.J. remaining in their lives, he includes Barney in the picture: the intrepid, hard-working dad who spends long weekends with his son but otherwise entrusts him to his uncles. He never pictures the worst-case scenario.

Because picturing that possibility means acknowledging it, he thinks, and his stomach twists again. Because if he and Clint both ignore it, disregard it, push it as far from their minds as possible, it simply won’t come true.

The weight of Clint’s gaze settles on his face, searching his expression for some kind of tell, and Phil exhales slowly. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” he finally says.

“You mean fall face first in that huge fucking hole.” Phil rolls his lips together, but Clint just drags a hand through his hair. “I grew up with guys who never knew their dads,” he says, his eyes drifting back to the ceiling. “Or, worse, who visited them once a month in a gray room with no windows. That shit haunts you. Opens up a hole that you end up filling with cheap booze and bad choices.”

Phil studies him for a minute—the distance and helplessness in his eyes, the defeated slump of his shoulders—before he asks, “Is this about other kids, or about you?”

Clint snorts. “My dad never landed in jail.”

“No, but you don’t really remember him, and what you do remember, you don’t really _like_.” Clint huffs and twists away, angling his body back toward the wall, and Phil allows him a moment of contemplative silence before he scoots a little closer to him. “You survived,” he points out.

“By the skin of my teeth and fueled by spite, sure.”

“From what I hear, spite’s an excellent fuel.” Even with face tilted away, it’s hard to miss the tiny ghost of a smile that tugs at the corner of Clint’s mouth, and Phil smiles softly as he cards his fingers through his husband’s hair. Clint sighs and tips his head into the touch. “You looked an impossible situation in the eye,” Phil continues, “and you pulled through. Put yourself through college and law school, built a life for yourself. Every roadblock, every challenge, you’ve faced it head-on and come out swinging. P.J.’s capable of the same.”

Clint shifts just enough to shoot Phil a sharp glance. “P.J.’s one.”

“Well, in another seventeen-plus years, P.J. will be capable of the same—provided he’s not tempted by crossbows and convenience stores.” Clint snorts and rolls his eyes, and Phil can’t really contain his little grin. “You’re a good role model, Clint. You’ll show P.J. how to survive.”

“Or I’ll fuck him up.” 

The absolute certainty in Clint’s voice feels like a physical blow to the chest, and by the time Phil recovers his breath enough to release a noise of protest, Clint’s shaking his head. “Not everybody’s cut out to be a mentor. Or to raise a kid.”

Phil swallows around the thick feeling in the back of his throat. “Just because you’re inexperienced doesn’t mean—”

“It’s not experience. You gimme enough time, I’ll figure anything out. It’s just—” The words catch, almost shaking slightly, and Phil watches as he purses his lips into a tight, thin line. His gaze drifts back up to the ceiling, and for a long, quiet moment, he studies the little imperfections in the paint there. Phil remembers a time when they’d spent hours staring at that ceiling, content to leech each other’s company as the world passed by.

This time, Phil knows the silence is only delaying the inevitable.

“The world dumped two kids on Trick,” Clint finally murmurs, “and in all the years we spent together, he never figured out how to love us. His flesh and blood, maybe a couple degrees removed, and he never—” His voice wavers again, and his throat bobs as he swallows. “If my dad and his cousin never put together how to raise a couple kids, maybe that’s buried somewhere inside of me, too.”

The stolen-breath sensation blooms in Phil’s chest, ten times harder than a few minutes earlier, and for one terrifying second, Phil wonders if his heart’s physically crumbling. He fights against the feeling, against the instinct to press a hand to his chest and feel for his own heartbeat, settling instead to draw in a long, slow breath. Next to him, Clint lies still and silent, his face still tipped up toward the ceiling and his expression a million miles away.

He wets his lips. “Clint—”

“No, Phil,” Clint cuts him off with a rough shake of his head. “Not right now, okay?”

He glances back in Phil’s direction, and Phil spends a few helpless seconds staring at him until, finally, he nods. Clint nods back, another weak ghost smile touching the corner of his mouth, and leans in to kiss Phil’s wrist before rolling back toward the wall. By the time Phil shuts off the lamp and lies down beside him, his breathing’s even and deep, but somehow, Phil knows without a second thought that he’s still miles from sleep.

Meaning that, when he spoons up behind Clint and wraps an arm around his waist, Clint immediately melts into the touch. Phil kisses the back of his neck and one of his shoulders, tugging him closer until their legs tangle and until he swears, against all logic, that he can feel Clint’s heartbeat along with his own.

They lie like that for a long time before Phil says, “No matter what’s buried inside you, I love you.”

Clint’s whole body trembles as he nods. “I know.”

 

==

 

“You know I’m honor-bound to ask what’s eating you, right? Part of the whole _our husbands adore each other like brothers from different mothers_ thing.”

Phil glances away from Amy and P.J. just as Tony drops onto the couch. He’s still red-faced and wind-swept from walking the dogs, but when he holds out a steaming coffee mug, Phil smiles. For their part, the dogs prance and caper around room, joyfully leash-free, and only stop when they spot not one but two children on the floor. Phil holds his breath for a second as they nose and lick P.J.’s chubby cheeks, but as always, P.J. just grins.

“Gog,” he announces, trying to wriggle out of Amy’s lap as the greyhounds wander off. “Da _gog_.”

Amy shakes her head. “No doggies,” she instructs, and when P.J. keeps struggling, she wraps arms around him. He cranes his neck to blink up at her, slightly mesmerized by her big smile. “Books.”

“Ook?” P.J. mimics hopefully.

She nods. “Book,” she repeats, all her emphasis on the _b_ sound, and picks up the iPad.

P.J. casts one last forlorn glance toward the dogs, one arm still outstretched in their direction, but the second Amy restarts her read-along app, he relaxes. His grabby fingers tangle in her messy curls, a sort of living security blanket, and he settles back against her chest. For a moment, Phil pictures Amy as a full-time older sister—protective, doting, and painfully in love—and he smiles as he sips his coffee.

At least until Tony snaps and jabs a finger at him. “No,” he says.

Phil blinks. “No?”

“We are at maximum capacity in this household. Saturation level. We absolutely cannot take in any more small people.” Phil snorts and shakes his head as Tony flops back against the couch cushions. “In case you’re wondering, your face right now is the reason I waited until our husbands went on their friend-date with the Red Menace to invite you and the baby over. Because the mushy smiles might actually kill me.”

“Or because Amy passed three spelling tests in a row,” Miles calls from the kitchen. Tony twists around to glare at him, but his son just shrugs. “Technically four, since you refused to ‘fill the house with baby feelings’ last week.”

“Or maybe I wanted to wait and see if my first-in-time child passed just _one_ vocabulary test,” Tony fires back, and Miles wrinkles his nose as he drops his eyes back to his homework.

Phil laughs a little at the routine of it all—the so-called heartless Tony Stark forever at the mercy of his beloved children—but as usual, his mind immediately wanders. Ever since their meeting with Foggy—or, more accurately, since their conversation about Barney and P.J.—Clint’s remained distant and unusually quiet. Part of that, Phil knows, is a by-product of work: Clint’d had a two-day trial with Steve left over from Maria’s maternity leave and Phil’d spent the better part of the week preparing for an upcoming conference. But the rest, Phil worries, is an artifact of their late-night talk, a shadow cast by the Barney-shaped elephant that forever lives in their house.

Or maybe, he thinks, the elephant’s shaped like the other men in Clint’s life, like his father and Trick Chisholm.

Either way, he tries hard not to obsess over the last few days of tense silence in their house, a silence marked by long looks and even longer sighs. And more than that, he tries not to think about the way Clint flinches every time P.J. crows “dada!” at him, or at how the baby’s face falls every time he notices the sudden drop in his favorite uncle’s mood.

“You realize we _can_ actually talk, right?” Phil frowns a little at Tony’s needling tone, but when he raises an eyebrow, the other man simply raises his hands. “I know my reputation probably precedes me, but I am actually really great at high-stakes conversations.”

Over in the kitchen, Teddy stops reaching for a glass to tilt his head like a confused basset hound. “Really?” he asks.

“Yeah, since when?” Miles immediately jumps in.

Phil hides a chuckle behind his mug as Tony rolls his eyes at both of his teenagers. “Everybody in this house is absolutely hilarious. Disinherited for disloyal conduct, but still _very_ funny.”

Miles snorts into his history book. “There’s no way Dad’ll leave us out of his will,” he mutters.

“Sure, but like your dad always mutters when he thinks I’m just out of earshot, there is a very good chance I will drive him into an early grave.” Both sons jerk their heads up to scowl at him, but he waves them off as he twists back in Phil’s direction. “I know you’re the king of silent stoicism, Coulson, but come on. Something’s obviously eating at you.”

Phil snorts into his coffee. “I’m fine, Tony.”

“No, you’re staring into middle distance like the main character from a telenovela. And since those ladies always end up dead or seduced by their own evil twins . . . ”

He raises his eyebrows as he trails off, his smirk just on the right side of absolutely indecent, and Phil rolls his eyes as he lowers his mug back into his lap. But despite the truly obnoxious edge to Tony’s needling, never mind his persistent stare, Phil feels his resolve start to unravel. He runs his thumb over the edge of the mug for a moment, watching as the steam slowly rises and disappears. 

Finally, he sighs. “Clint and I talked about his brother the other night, a sort of status update,” he admits, shaking his head. “But other than the usual frustration, the only real take-away is that he’s not sure whether he’s cut out to be a parent.”

A single beat of silence passes between the two of them before Tony snorts. “That’s it?” 

Phil snaps his head up to scowl at him. “You know, for someone who claims to be ‘actually great’ at serious conversations—”

“You think he’s the only parent in the world who feels that way?” Tony cuts in, and something about the bare-faced honesty in his expression forces Phil’s shoulders to unclench. Tony shakes his head. “I know your programming precludes the possibility of self-doubt, but for the rest of us, we worry about the whole ‘cut out to be a parent’ thing every day of the week. And before you ask, I absolutely include myself _and_ my husband in that number.”

Phil’s brow bunches in confusion. “Bruce worries?”

Tony raises his hands in a loose shrug. “I know, right? Here I married the guy for his parental prowess—”

Over in the breakfast nook, Miles snorts. “That is _so_ not why.”

“Well, I’d talk about his parenting _and_ his chest hair, but someone in this family declared that sort of thing ‘gross’ and ‘too much information.’” Miles huffs and rolls his eyes, and despite himself, Phil smiles. “My point,” Tony continues, “is that I married the best dad in the known universe and he _still_ worries that he’ll break at least two-thirds of our children.”

“Uh, pretty sure he’s more worried about _you_ breaking us,” Teddy offers with a shrug.

Tony twists to glare at his sons. “Stop weighing in on my meaningful conversation!”

The boys snicker (and, Phil suspects, exchange a secretive high-five of victory), and for a brief moment, Phil holds onto his smile. Then, he remembers the way Clint’s voice trembled during their conversation—and the way his whole body trembled after—and he runs fingers through his hair. “He thinks he might not be able to care about P.J. enough to be a good influence,” he admits after a beat, the words sticky and unfamiliar in the back of his throat. “He’s the most loving, most loyal person I know—a man who forgave his brother for almost ruining his life—but he’s still convinced—”

“That his screwed-up past might leave a huge scorch mark on everything he touches?”

Phil rolls his lips together, his head bobbing without his permission, and Tony heaves a sigh. He scrubs a hand over his goatee before leaning forward, his elbows on his legs. When he folds his hands, he immediately toys with his wedding band, and Phil almost snorts a laugh.

“Look,” Tony says after another couple seconds, “I know you think of Clint as this guy who, I don’t know, rose above the hand dealt to him by his dead parents and his fucked-up cousin, but as a guy with his own family-shaped demons, I can tell you that the past never leaves you. Even when you think you’ve tip-toed around it, it stretches out these spindly little skeleton fingers and tickles the back of your neck. Reminds you that it’s still looming, still a part of you.” He drops his eyes to his hands, his shoulders slumping slightly. “And sometimes, those demons, they help you be a better parent. But the rest of the time?”

He shakes his head, and the question hangs heavily between them before Phil finally draws in a long breath. “How do I help him?”

Tony shrugs. “Personally, I shove children at my sometimes-maladjusted orphan and hope they cuddle him into submission, but your mileage may vary.” Phil snorts and nearly rolls his eyes, and Tony’s mouth kicks up into a tiny half-grin. “Failing that, I like reminding him that I love him. And that the sins of the father aren’t _always_ visited on the son. And that his kiss still screws with my knees and leaves me—”

In the kitchen, Miles groans. “ _Way_ too much information!” he shouts, covering his face with his textbook.

Despite his best efforts, Phil huffs out a laugh, and he’s not entirely surprised when Tony immediately winks at him. “I guess the takeaway is that we try to take care of each other when the going turns wonky and the night’s full of ghosts,” he finishes, shrugging a little. “And most the time, it actually kind of works.”

 

==

 

Clint arrives home only about half an hour after Phil and P.J., his hair messy from the autumn wind. Phil’s already in his pajamas and halfway ready for bed, but P.J.—overstimulated, overtired, and still a little damp from his bath—wears only a hooded baby towel and his diaper. He fights against sleep as Clint sheds his jacket and drops his keys on the table by the door, and Phil bounces him as he studies his husband in the half-dark.

“He okay?” Clint asks as he toes off his shoes.

Phil nods unevenly. “Just a little tired,” he replies, his hand rubbing the baby’s back as he fusses and squirms. Clint’s head bobs, but when his eyes linger on P.J., Phil swallows. “And I think he misses you,” he adds carefully.

Clint raises his head, blinking. “Yeah?”

“After the last couple days, yeah.”

Clint nods again, his throat bobbing, and against his better judgment, Phil shifts P.J. around just enough that he catches a glimpse of his uncle. The baby grunts and rubs his face with a fist, obviously trying to wake himself up, and when his eyes settle on his favorite person, he immediately sticks his arms out. “ _Ca_ ,” he demands, a brand new sound.

Clint snorts. “Ca?” he repeats, his laugh lines bunching slightly.

P.J. kicks his legs. “Caaaaaa,” he whines, and when he cranes his whole body in Clint’s direction, Clint reaches out to catch him.

Phil’s not entirely sure how to describe the warmth that blooms in his chest when his husband tucks their nephew into his arms and kisses his hair, but somehow, he’s not sure he needs to. Because the smile that crosses Clint’s face—sweet, warm, and just a tiny bit lost—says more than a thousand words ever could.

“Welcome home,” Phil says, sliding a hand down Clint’s back.

“Yeah,” Clint murmurs, and presses his nose to Phil’s temple. 

 

==

 

“Was it aggravating?” Bucky asks, reaching for his soda. “Because it sounds kind of aggravating.”

Two chairs over, Natasha stops stabbing her salad to shoot Bucky one of the dirtiest looks in recorded history. Clint snorts, hiding his smirk behinds his meatball sub, and Phil rolls his lips together to keep from laughing. Only Steve sighs and shakes his head. “I’m not going to mourn you when she murders you,” he warns.

Bucky snorts, a grin creeping slowly across his face. “Murder?” he repeats, all wide-eyed innocence and fluttering eyelashes. “Why would Natasha murder me? Just because she was robbed—” He pauses for effect while Natasha’s jaw twitches. “—of victory doesn’t mean I should die. After all, Hogun really _stole_ the case right out from under here. And while that’s an assault on human decency, I don’t think—”

“Coulson?” Natasha asks, her gaze flicking over in Phil’s direction.

Phil raises his eyebrows. “Yes?”

“Can I stab him with your letter opener?”

He ignores the sound of Clint swallowing down a surprised bark of laughter to slide his pen cup, letter opener and all, to the edge of his desk. “Sounds like an appropriate punishment to me,” he replies casually, and Natasha’s placid expression darkens while everybody else groans.

Phil dodges the balled-up straw wrapper his husband flicks at him and smiles to himself as Steve mercifully picks up the conversation and steers it far away from any more puns. Natasha’s final case from Maria’s maternity leave—the aggravated assault and robbery of a young mother—had ended in a hung jury late Friday afternoon, and Natasha’d spent most of Monday morning stomping around and growling at anyone who dared cross her. 

“Bucky’s trying to cheer her up,” Steve’d warned Phil when he’d stopped by to collect lunch orders, “but I think the dad jokes might be a bit much.”

Phil’d frowned. “Did he borrow one of Dot’s ‘comedy for kids’ books again?” he’d asked.

The other man’d snorted. “Worse, he let _Tony_ give him some pointers,” he’d replied, and laughed when Phil’d cringed.

In the week since meeting with Foggy Nelson (and, of course, with Wade), Phil’s devoted most of his time and effort to various projects around the office: reorganizing caseloads, sorting and scanning old cases before sending them to the basement for long-term storage, reviewing his notes on Maria’s cases as preparation for handing them back to her. From the moment he steps into the office until he closes his door at night, he’s completely preoccupied with his usual work duties—or at least, he pretends to be. Because despite the piles of work cluttering up his desk (and worse, part of the conference room), he still checks his phone every hour, desperate for news from the legal aid office.

At one point on Wednesday, Skye’d texted him. _any updates??????????????_ she’d asked.

Phil’d rubbed his eyes under his glasses before thumbing open a reply. _Just more waiting_ , he’d typed back.

She’d sent him an exasperated emoji in response, but nothing else.

Worse, life outside the office feels like the same waiting game, complete with obsessive phone-checking and a lot of muttering about Wade’s nearly indecipherable text messages. Despite his daily texts to Clint about Nate, his step-daughter, and his new favorite downtown food cart, Wade offers little actual news about Barney. 

“Probably ‘cause there’s not any,” Clint’d grumbled Saturday afternoon. He’d flopped down on the couch next to Phil, his head tilted up toward the ceiling. “I know they’re working. They’re not the type to blow us off. But they could pick up the pace at least a little.”

“And here, I thought slow and steady won the race.” Clint’d rolled his eyes, his expression stormy until P.J.’d stopped balancing on Phil’s thighs to throw himself onto Clint’s belly. Caught off guard, Clint’d coughed and wheezed, and their nephew’d patted his cheek consolingly. Phil’d watched them for a moment, nearly smiling, before shaking his head. “I’m sure they’re doing everything they can,” he’d added after a beat. “And even if they’re not, the worst case scenario is that the research leads them to a dead end.”

Clint’d snorted. “No, the worst case is that they find something a lot worse,” he’d corrected, and stroked his fingers through P.J.’s thick hair.

Phil’s still thinking about that conversation—and about the hint of resignation in his husband’s voice—when someone taps lightly on his mostly closed office door. “If you’re Tony, Phil’s in here alone!” Clint shouts from his spot on the window ledge.

Steve snorts, and Bucky grins around his sandwich.

“Please. Tony’s unrequited crush on Phil is one of my favorite things about this office.” Phil nearly chokes on a sip of coffee as Peggy, smiling placidly and armed with a carton of Chinese food, peeks her head into the door. “How Bruce survives all the flirting, I’ll never know.”

“The sex probably makes up for it,” Steve says with a shrug. Everyone in the room twists to stare at him, and Bucky actually blinks in surprise. A blush slowly creeps across the tips of Steve’s ears and down his neck. “I don’t _know_ ,” he insists. “I just hear things.”

Natasha raises her eyebrows. “Actually hear them, or—”

“Oh no,” Peggy interrupts, jabbing her chopsticks in Natasha’s general direction. “There are things in this world I would happily live my whole life never knowing about, and Tony Stark’s sex life is first on that list.” She waits until Natasha shrugs and returns to her salad to glance over at Phil. “And just to ensure we never revisit the subject: there’s a man here to see you.”

Phil frowns. “A man?”

Behind him, Clint snorts. “You’re just collecting the admirers today, boss.”

Phil rolls his eyes at the unfettered amusement in his husband’s voice, but Peggy just shrugs and picks at her Chinese food. “I’m not sure you want this admirer. He looks like he might be homeless, and the woman with him looks like an off-brand Pepper.”

“And he’s here for me?” Phil asks.

She shrugs. “You and Clint both, actually.”

Phil tosses a glance over his shoulder, watching as Clint’s brow furrows slightly. “They have names?” he asks.

Peggy stops short, chopsticks dangling an inch from her mouth, and wrinkles her nose. “I’m on my lunch. You’re lucky I’m warning you at all.” She helps herself to a bite before shaking her head. “They said it was urgent, so I told the receptionist to count to twenty before sending them over here.”

Phil rolls his lips together. “If you said to count to twenty—” 

“Hey,” another voice chimes in, and Peggy steps out of the way to reveal Foggy Nelson and a tall redhead standing in the hallway. He raises his hand in greeting, his smile sheepish, and Phil’s momentary uncertainty about a strange man wanting to see him and Clint immediately recedes. He draws in a breath and nearly smiles—until he remembers why he knows Foggy Nelson in the first place.

His heart sinks into his stomach. 

“Sorry, we were just finishing lunch,” Phil says, immediately snapping to his feet to sweep balled-up sandwich paper and empty bags of chips into the trash. He hears shuffling behind him, and within seconds, Clint appears at his side, a hand touching the small of his back. Steve, Bucky, and Natasha all pick up the cue to leave, dumping their garbage and murmuring quick goodbyes. 

Steve pauses in the hallway to introduce himself, and Phil barely registers that the redhead’s name is Karen Page before Bucky releases a low whistle. He cocks his head to one side, his lips pursed appreciatively, and comments, “Peggy has a point about the Pepper thing.”

Natasha smacks him hard in the stomach. “Repeat that, and the puns are the least of your worries,” she growls, and stalks out of the office.

Bucky slinks out behind her, his attention still slightly caught by Karen (or, more likely, her gray dress and impressive heels), and both she and Foggy watch as he disappears down the hallway. She waits she steps into the office to ask, “Should I worry about that?”

Phil snorts. “Absolutely not.”

“Only because Bucky’s married,” Clint replies at roughly the same time. Phil frowns, raising an eyebrow, and Clint rolls his eyes. “Please don’t tell me you missed Bucky’s thing for redheads. Steve tells this story about the time he dressed up like Chuckie for Halloween, and—”

“Do you want to sit down?” Phil interrupts, gesturing to the chairs in front of his desk. “Barring that, I can offer you a new employee who knows a lot about DUIs.”

Clint huffs and crosses his arms over his chest, but Phil knows without a second thought that he’s posturing, guarding himself against whatever nerves are clawing at his stomach and throat. Foggy smiles sheepishly, introducing Karen to both of them before finally helping himself to one of the chairs. He perches on the very edge, his hands folded between his knees. Next to him, Karen crosses her legs and purses her lips.

Phil half expects Clint to drag the last chair over to his side of the desk, but instead, he leans against the nearest file cabinet and simply hovers there, his sharp eyes studying Foggy and Karen in equal measure. It’s only after Phil finally sits down and drags out a legal pad that he asks, “You find something?”

Karen glances at Foggy, who shrugs weakly. “I talked to my friend Ben, the reporter,” she explains, smoothing a hand over her dress, “and after working on this for the last week—”

“Something is definitely rotten in the state of Denmark,” Foggy finishes for her, his eyes flicking over to Clint. “And we’re pretty sure your brother’s a cog in the big, rotten wheel.”


	13. The Last of the Colier Park Residents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, the truth about the Colier Park Trailer Park, Barney Barton, and Colonial Investments is revealed. But while they finally have a plan to deal with Barney’s misdeeds, Phil and Clint are still trying to figure out a plan for the other lost boy in their life: P.J.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A petition in a civil case is the court document that kicks off the case. It basically explains all your allegations and what actual legal claims you are bringing against the other person or company. Think of it like Martin Luther nailing his theses to the church door, only instead of using a nail, you hand the paper to a nice court clerk who hole-punches it and slots it in a folder.
> 
> Thanks as always to my beta-readers, Jen and saranoh, who laugh in the face of my rapidly evaporating buffer.

“Hey, what’re you upset about? You’re good.”

P.J. scowls, obviously unconvinced by his uncle’s gentle soothing, and Clint sighs as he dog-ears a page in his book. He shifts the baby from one knee to the other, bouncing him slightly, but his only reward is more fussing. 

“You’re just fighting sleep,” Clint chides, smiling when P.J. rubs his face with a chubby fist. “Yeah, see? Being difficult, just ‘cause Phil left the room.”

P.J. stops rubbing his face to blink up at his uncle, and for a moment, the whole house feels quiet. As dark and still inside as out, Phil thinks—at least, until wind rustles through the trees and breaks the calm.

The noise distracts P.J., and he finally admits defeat by flopping back against his uncle’s chest. Clint smiles and nearly presses a kiss to his temple before he notices the snot smeared across his nephew’s nose and mouth. “Aww, Peej, no,” he complains, reaching for a tissue. “We gotta teach you to blow. You’re turning into a snot monster.”

“Snostah?” P.J. asks, tipping his head up.

Clint grins. “Yeah, that’s right. The Snotster.”

P.J.’s momentary calm evaporates the second he spots the tissue, and he fights against Clint with tiny fists of helpless rage. Worse, he twists his head away at the last second, wiping his nose on Clint’s thumb and palm. Even when Clint cleans them both up, P.J. fusses and kicks until Clint picks up the book. “Where were we?” he asks seriously, and the baby hesitates before smacking a random place on the page. “Yeah, that looks about right.”

He starts reading again, his voice soft and steady, and P.J. sticks two fingers in his mouth as he listens.

And in the kitchen, Phil smiles.

He watches as P.J. cuddles into Clint’s t-shirt, again caught up in the soothing rhythm of Clint reading aloud. In truth, Phil almost falls into the same trance, and he forces his attention back to cleaning with an internal sigh. He’d handed the baby off to Clint with a promise to load the dishwasher and fill a sippy cup with warm milk (the only sure-fire way to trick P.J. into sleeping), but in the end, he’d been distracted by the low murmur from the living room. Even now, he stops rinsing out coffee mugs to catch snippets of the story.

Or, more importantly, to steal glimpses of Clint as he rocks their weary nephew.

Unlike with the terrifying stomach bug in July, P.J.’s cold had crept up on them, transforming from the occasional little sniffle into the sleepless, fussy snot monster now snuggled up on Clint’s lap. “It’s going around the whole room,” his daycare provider had commented on the first day. “As long as he’s not running a temperature, he’s welcome here. They nap harder when they don’t feel well, and I can wipe noses with the best of them.”

For his part, P.J.’d ignored her to squirm in Clint’s grip. “Buh!” he’d demanded. When Clint’d hiked him up higher on his hip, P.J.’d stretched both arms toward a plastic tub filled with Tonka trucks. “Buh!”

Clint’d frowned. “Buddy, I don’t know—”

“The bus,” the daycare provider’d quickly answered. P.J.’d cast her a desperate look, and she’d smiled. “He loves the toy bus. We just need to work on sharing it with the other kids.”

“Unfortunately, that part’s all genetic,” Phil’d replied.

Clint’d snorted and rolled his eyes. “It’s not hogging him if he likes me better, boss.”

“Buh,” P.J.’d agreed, and wiped his nose on Clint’s shoulder.

Except thanks to the cold (or to Phil’s status as their household’s primary nose-wiper), P.J. definitely prefers Clint over his other uncle, clinging miserably to him every night and refusing to sleep unless Uncle Clint spends hours soothing him. Even now, he yawns and burrows closer to Clint, his face halfway hidden. Clint sways absently, his attention wrapped up in the story even as Phil wanders into the room.

“He might be a little young for James Fenimore Cooper,” he comments as he drops onto the couch. Clint raises his head, and Phil nods toward the book. “ _The Last of the Mohicans_ , right? From that garage sale you raided back in May?”

His husband shrugs. “Sounded better than one of your eighty-seven Grishams.” Phil wrinkles his nose at that, and Clint grins. “Besides, he’s thirteen months old. He won’t remember Hawkeye in the long run.”

“Until he watches _M*A*S*H_ reruns as a teenager and suffers from traumatic flashbacks,” Phil points out.

“At least he’s not old enough to remember the show’s first run.”

“And you’re not young enough to pretend you _don’t_ ,” Phil counters, and Clint smirks as he bumps their shoulders together. P.J. lifts his head at the jostling, his face scrunching in frustration until he notices his green sippy cup. He sticks out both arms with a grunt of effort, and Phil cards fingers through his hair before handing it over.

P.J. sighs and flops back against Clint, just as happy with his warm milk as with the story. Clint’s expression softens into something gentle and fond, and as Phil watches, he kisses the top of their nephew’s head. For a moment, he’s completely caught up in the simple act of cuddling that baby, and Phil—

Phil swallows against the sudden wave of emotions that crash through his stomach. “I thought you said counting months was for suckers,” he finally teases. His throat feels prickly.

Clint blinks, frowning. “What?”

“A few weeks ago, Jane said that Astrid was seventeen months old. You rolled your eyes and said counting months was for suckers.” Clint snorts, and Phil shrugs. “But a second ago—” 

“A couple weeks ago, we didn’t have a thirteen month old, just a kid who’d turned a year. Now, we need the extra month.” Phil purses his lips to keep from smiling, but Clint just glances down at their nephew. “Plus,” he adds, “I figure we owe it to him to keep track. Somebody’s got to, right? And if that means counting months like a sucker, we’ll be suckers.”

He dips his head to press his nose to P.J.’s hair, his face partially hidden, and P.J. smiles sleepily around his cup. When Clint finally picks up the book a moment later, Phil falls easily into the rise and fall of his voice, which feels as warm and full as the lamplight.

Deep down, of course, Phil knows that the reading serves as a distraction, a way for Clint to soothe himself as much as their nephew. After all, the immediate reality of their fussy toddler and his snotty nose still feels bigger, more real, than tomorrow afternoon’s meeting at the Union County Jail. Ever since Monday afternoon, when Karen and Foggy had arrived at the district attorney’s office with a packet full of papers and a terrifying game plan, Clint’s thrown himself into every possible distraction: work, muy thai, housework, and even—

Well, “parenting” feels like the wrong word—like stealing something that still belongs to Barney—but either way, Clint’s devoted every evening to their nephew, bathing and snuggling him like he expects the universe to tear them apart.

P.J.’s grip on his cup loosens as he starts to drift off, but as always, Clint catches it seconds before it hits the floor. He places it on the end table without missing a beat in the book, and when P.J. sighs, he spreads his hand over the baby’s chubby belly. Protecting him, Phil thinks, and his chest tightens when he imagines all the invisible monsters that both his Barton boys imagine when they slip off to sleep.

“I—” The cadence of Clint’s voice changes, the story broken, but he shakes his head instead of finishing the thought. He closes the book slowly to roll his head back against the couch cushions. When he sighs, P.J. wriggles closer, and Phil smiles.

At least, until he realizes his husband’s studying him, his lips pursed and his brow furrowed. 

Phil raises an eyebrow. “What?”

“Think he knows?” 

“Who?”

“P.J.” Still avoiding sleep, their nephew stirs slightly at his name, and Clint glances away just long enough to shush him. “I just wonder if he knows that Barney’s not around. You know? Like, does he even recognize that his whole life’s pretty upside-down?”

Phil watches them for a moment—his husband with his head tipped down toward their nephew, P.J. with his fluttering eyelashes—before he finally shakes his head. “Like you said before,” he answers, “he’s thirteen months old. He’s not sure what life’s even supposed to be like. For all we know, he thinks of us as his new right-side up.”

Clint nods a little, his eyes sweeping over P.J.’s sleeping face. “Yeah, you’re right. At least, I hope.”

Something about his admission, this tiny almost-whisper, catches Phil off guard, and his lips part involuntarily before he realizes he’s absolutely speechless. Despite their legion of nosy friends and the new support group, Clint still avoids talking about life with P.J. as the new status quo—and now, in the face of that much honesty, Phil finds himself struggling for a response. Because as much as he wants to agree with Clint—to encourage him, reach out to him, beg him to actually discuss their role in P.J.’s life—he’s terrified to demand too much.

Or, a treacherous voice in the back of his mind mutters, he’s terrified to admit to the _want_ that wells up in his chest every time Clint kisses their nephew goodnight.

“I’ll tuck him in,” Clint offers, and Phil jerks out of his thoughts to blink at his husband. “Mind making some coffee? If we’re gonna go over everything for tomorrow, I’d kinda like to be awake for it.”

Phil forces a tiny smile. “Sure,” he agrees, and ducks his head to kiss P.J. before Clint sweeps him away.

Still, he hangs out on the couch until Clint’s footfalls disappear down the hallway, his eyes drifting slowly shut. When P.J. cries (probably protesting a diaper change), he imagines Clint scooping him up to cradle him, his rough hands a stark contrast to P.J.’s smooth, pale skin.

He thinks of the similarities between the two Bartons—their rumpled hair, their bright eyes, the way their eyelids droop when they’re tired—and forces himself into the kitchen before he joins them in P.J.’s bedroom.

The guest room, he reminds himself as he grabs the coffee can.

Except at this point, he barely believes his own lie.

He’s halfway through his second cup of coffee by the time Clint joins him in the home office. He flops bodily onto the couch and scrubs a hand over his face before glancing at Phil. “How far you get?” he asks, eyeing to the thick file folder.

Phil shakes his head. “Not far. Mostly just reorganizing my notes. And before you ask, yes, your coffee is probably cold.”

Clint stops reaching for his (stolen) Suffolk County District Attorney mug to snag Phil’s. He helps himself to a big sip before shrugging. “Warm enough for me.”

Phil scowls. “You are an enormous child.”

Clint shrugs. “You married me,” he points out, and Phil bites back a smile as he flips open the folder.

They sit in silence for a few long minutes, Clint worrying his mug between his palms while Phil skims the first few pages from Foggy and Karen. A couple times, Phil steals a sideways glance to study the worry lines creasing Clint’s mouth, but as usual, he’s not sure how to break the silence. In some strange way, talking about Barney feels like a long climb uphill, and Phil never knows where to start.

Finally, though, Clint sighs and shakes his head. “Starting to think we’re too old for this, boss. Should’ve become hermits when we had the chance. Live in your sister’s barn or something.”

Phil snorts. “You’d go stir crazy by the third day. Start hunting squirrels with a crossbow made out of car parts and twine.” Clint grunts into his coffee, and Phil raises an eyebrow. “Am I wrong?”

“Pretty sure none of that stuff’s got enough give to fire an arrow.”

He rolls his eyes. “Fine. I’ll overlook the fact you know that off the top of your head and amend your materials to plywood and denim from your least-favorite pair of jeans.” Clint grins at that, and for a moment, they just study one another, their knees bumping idly. “I hate these crises as much as you do,” Phil finally says, “but sometimes, I think we’d be useless without them. Like Tony always says, our whole office thrives on drama.”

Clint screws up his face in a frown. “You mean Stark thrives on drama and infected us all like we’re _Waking Dead_ zombies.”

“Now that we’re all eating brains, is there really a difference?” Phil wonders, and Clint actually huffs a laugh as he reaches for the stack of paperwork.

As much as Foggy and Karen tried to organize everything—and, more importantly, to explain it all in excruciating, mind-numbing detail—slogging through the pile of documents feels a little like trudging through a combination of spider webs, half-dried concrete, and wet sand. Every time he drags himself through the mess, Phil finds something new to double- or triple-check, and he knows from Clint’s pile of chicken-scratch notes that he’s not alone in that. Worse, the pieces still feel scattered and mismatched, like assembling a puzzle without ever glimpsing the front of the box.

But what Phil knows for certain is that all of Barney and Ally’s fellow criminals are tied to the trailer park in some important way. A few, like Barney, live there full-time and own their own trailers. Others help support friends and relatives in the community. Like, for instance, George Valdez, who chips in to help his grandmother Renata pay for her lot rental.

Speaking of the trailer park, Phil _also_ knows that almost all of the mobile homes there are either already empty or about to be, thanks mainly to ugly eviction proceedings. The court filings that Karen and Foggy dug up (allegedly by flirting with reluctant clerks) completely match Anissa’s claims from a few weeks ago: the new owners of the park keep forcing out long-time residents thanks to a team of lawyers and some ridiculous civil claims. In fact, the only people who remain comfortably in their homes are the ones associated with Barney’s little criminal enterprise.

Not, of course, that Phil blames Barney for all that.

Instead, Phil blames Colonial Investment Group.

According to all the signs around the trailer park, Colonial Investment Group now owns the property and manages all the lot rentals. According to county records, however, the group has already sold the park to yet another company, a developer with very predictable ties to Wiltshire Holdings. More importantly, the developer had recently filed blueprints for a high-end housing development to be built right on top of the park.

On top of Clint and Barney’s childhood home, Phil thinks, and anger curls in his chest every time.

“This shit,” Clint mutters, and Phil glances up from his notes just as his husband flips through the development plan. “No matter how many times I look at it, I can’t stop wanting to fucking punch these assholes. They’re pulling the rug out from under people. Tossing out the undesirables to bring in some hipsters.”

“With deep pockets,” Phil adds, and he shrugs when Clint scowls at him. “You’re absolutely right, but like Foggy said on Monday: everything about this reads like somebody’s grand get-rich-quick scheme. Bulldozing a vulnerable community is just collateral damage.”

Clint exhales hard and digs fingers through his hair. “Except that trailer park’s the only home most of them know, me and Barney included,” he counters. “Chasing people out, ripping it down— Maybe they didn’t plan on running off the poor people, but it should fucking matter that they are.”

“And that’s probably why Barney’s caught up in this.” Clint snorts again, shaking his head, and Phil reaches out to touch his knee. He tenses slightly, his jaw twitching, but after a beat, his posture softens. Phil presses their shoulders together. “I don’t know for sure,” he continues, “but my instinct says your brother just wants to save his home. His community, really.”

Clint sighs. “Yeah, except the road to hell’s paved with those kinds of intentions,” he points out, and flips to the next page in the folder. 

 

==

 

“No,” Barney says.

The word echoes, too-loud against the cinderblock walls and followed immediately by Barney pushing his metal chair back. It scrapes against the concrete floor, a nails-on-chalkboard sound, but he ignores it to stalk away from the table. He shakes his head, cards fingers through his hair, and ultimately directs his attention to the room’s one, dingy window.

Hiding his face from the rest of them, Phil thinks as he glances at his husband. Clint purses his lips, but his carefully schooled expression barely masks the touch of fear in his eyes. He allows his brother a couple seconds of silence before he says, “Barney, you gotta—” 

Barney snorts. “I don’t _gotta_ do anything. Especially not this.”

Foggy frowns slightly, and Phil shrugs as silence again blankets the jailhouse interview room. At the end of the table, Wade rocks back on his chair. “You know, as much as I really hate to say that I told you so—”

Karen shoots him a sharp look. “Don’t you dare.”

He eyes her for a moment, his lower lip caught between his teeth, before finally raising his hands. “Like I said,” he amends, “I really hate telling people that I told them so. It always ends up way too awkward, with them glaring and threatening my remaining ball while _I_ convince them not to cut my brake line and leave me for dead. That’s why I never say it. Ever.”

Karen and Foggy exchange the briefest of glances before she huffs and rolls her eyes, and Foggy bites back a tiny, tight smile. Next to Phil, Clint crosses his arms over his chest and turns his glare to the nearest wall. With the exception of his sandy blond hair and sturdier build, he matches his brother almost perfectly: his body taut, his jaw stony, his gaze distant.

The Barton brothers, always on the defensive.

When the silence stretches on too long, Phil draws in a deep breath. “We did the research,” he says, and Barney’s shoulders clench. “We looked at all your cases, the trouble Ally’s been in, at what’s happening at the trailer park. And we came up with a solution.” He glances at Foggy, who nods. “We know it’s not perfect, but it’s a start. A way to end this mess, once and for all.”

Barney tosses a glance over his shoulder, and Phil raises his eyebrows. They stare at each other for a moment before his brother-in-law snorts. “Like you even know what you’re talking about.”

“We know more than you think.” Barney promptly rolls his eyes, but Karen nudges the civil petition closer to his side of the table. “We know that you’re not the only one in this position. We know that it’s not a coincidence that everyone involved in your crimes either lives in the trailer park or has relatives there. And we know someone’s taking advantage of all of you: forcing you out of your homes, subjecting you to outrageous lawsuits, plowing over you in the name of ‘urban development.’” Phil almost smiles at the snide edge to her tone, but she keeps her gaze fixed on Barney. “You’re the first person in that community we can help, but we can’t do it alone. We need a complaining plaintiff. And since you live there, and you’re under the same pressure—”

“No.” Barney shakes his head as he breaks away from the window. He paces to one corner of the room before scrubbing a hand over his face. “I’m not talking. Not about this shit, and not to a room full of lawyers.”

“Look, if this is a Fifth Amendment thing, we’re all on the same side,” Wade says. One of his shirt sleeves dangles, buttonless. “Nobody’s going to march up to Murdock’s office and tell him about this conversation. Like, I know they both sleep with him and everything—”

Karen groans. “For the last time,” she mutters, “we don’t both sleep with him.”

“—but they totally understand client confidentiality and all the other rules of professional responsibility.” He frowns and tosses a glance at Foggy. “I mean, you do, right? I’m not making that up?”

Foggy sighs. “Yes, Wade, Karen and I understand a basic principle of our profession.”

“Okay, good, because I wouldn’t—”

“You think I give a fuck about Murdock?” Barney breaks in, his voice trembling. He throws up his hands. “Shit, Murdock’s the least of my problems. I’d march right off to jail for that asshole if I knew it meant nobody’s gonna fuck with my family.”

Clint bristles. “Your family?” 

Barney purses his lips. “Forget I said that,” he says, turning back to the window.

Clint’s body jerks, his shoulders squaring, but Phil grabs his wrist before he rockets out of his chair. They stare at each other for a beat, Clint’s face stony and almost unreadable, and Phil waits until his jaw stops twitching to shake his head. In all the hours spent poring over print-outs and connecting half-hazy dots, they’d never stopped for a second to consider Barney’s reaction to their brilliant game plan. No, even after all the silence—and worse, the arguments—they’d just blindly expected Barney to sit down and bare his soul. As though the truth alone would chase away all his fear and anger.

Instead, Barney glares at the window while his brother digs fingers into his own thighs to keep still. He barely acknowledges when Phil strokes a thumb along his pulse point—or, a second later, when Phil releases him altogether.

On Phil’s other side, Foggy leans back in his chair. He studies Barney for a few seconds before remarking, “You’re not a hardened criminal, are you?”

Barney twists away from the window, his brow furrowed. “What?”

“Wade showed me your file,” Foggy replies, “and you’re definitely a lot of things. You have a baby, so you’re a dad. You worked construction last summer before they ran out of work for you, so you’re probably good with your hands. You had one hiccup with your probation, but otherwise, you’re on the straight and narrow.” Barney turns back to the window, and Foggy actually smiles. “Yeah, see? You’re not some life-long criminal deadbeat. Somebody backed you into a corner, and we’re here to help you walk out of it.”

He leans forward to tap the petition with his pen, scattering tiny blue dots next to the case caption, _Charles Bernard Barton, Plaintiff, v. Colonial Investment Group, LLC, defendant_. Barney watches him out of the corner of his eye, his gaze drifting from the document to the attorney and back again. When he finally moves, it’s to shake his head. “You think it’s that easy?” he asks.

“No,” Phil says. “But we can’t know for sure unless you actually tell us.”

Barney rolls his lips together, his brow tightening, and for the first time, Phil notices exactly how wet his brother-in-law’s eyes are. For a split second, he reminds Phil not of his brother but of his son, a scared little boy seconds from crying. The illusion only shatters when he sighs and drags fingers through his messy hair. “You gotta understand,” he says, looking back at the window, “they started in on the people with kids first. Easy pickings, you know? And P.J. was tiny, barely holding his head up. Ally and me, we couldn’t—”

The words shake, and he gulps down a deep breath instead of finishing the sentence. Next to Phil, Clint draws in an equally tremulous breath, and within a few seconds, all of his carefully constructed defenses crumble to dust. His shoulders slump, his expression softens, and all of the emotions he’s spent weeks hiding from Phil—the worry, the fear, the hurt—flood into his eyes. He blinks a few times, and when Phil touches his hand under the table, he laces their fingers together like a lifeline.

“Tell us what happened,” Clint finally says. Barney’s throat bobs, his face still mostly tilted toward the wall. “Barney, come on. You gotta tell us. We can’t do anything ‘til we know.”

And for the first time all afternoon—the first time in months, really—Barney Barton turns to face his brother head-on. “We made a deal with the fucking devil, that’s what.” 

Clint frowns at the answer, but Barney simply shakes his head as he lopes back to the table. “The new owners at the trailer park, they jacked up the prices on our lots,” he says as he drops into his chair. “They walk in, these fucking suits, and they promise that they’ll turn our shitty old park into the damn Emerald City as long as we pay out the nose for it. And none of us had the case, you know? Shit, I’d lost my job, we had a baby, we didn’t—” He pauses to rub the side of his neck. “But instead of kicking us out, they introduced us to the ‘plan.’”

Foggy raises his eyes at the finger quotes. “They called it that?”

Barney nods. “The suits show up one day with this guy, Davis. And Davis, he rounds up anybody who’s missed a payment. People with kids, old folks, guys on disability. All the people without cash under their mattresses, you know? He sits us down, and he drops this ‘deal’ on us. Says if we help him out, he’ll keep his bosses off our case. Maybe even drop our lot rentals back to normal, just to keep us in our homes.” He snorts bitterly, his weight slumping onto his elbows. “Sounded like a dream for me and Ally. For the rest of us, too, ‘cause we all needed the help. So we signed up, and people like old lady Valdez called their kids or grandkids into it ‘til Davis had six or seven idiots willing to do whatever the fuck he wanted.”

“Like robbing electronic stores,” Clint says.

“Sometimes, yeah.” Clint huffs out a hard breath, and Barney raises his hands defensively. “You gotta understand, these jobs they threw at us— Some of them didn’t matter. Hang outside the gas station, drinking and smoking, to scare off customers until the owner wants to sell the place. Rob the electronics place at the shitty old strip mall. But some of them, they—” His voice cracks, and he rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands. “They had us fucking with the other people at the park. Pulling siding off their trailers, stealing their mail, screwing with them ‘til they finally just leave. And the second we fell outta line, we got bills from the new owners. Trash fees, fines, anything to snap us back to fucking attention.”

He pauses, his breath trembling, and a long silence settles across the room. At least, until somebody releases a long, low whistle.

Four attorneys all twist to glare at Wade, who flinches. “Sorry,” he mutters. “Stupid force of habit.”

Across the table, Barney almost smiles. 

“They extorted you,” Karen points out after another beat, and Barney rolls his lips together. “They found a way to guarantee your bad behavior, and they took advantage of it.”

Slouching back against the chair, Barney nods. “Ally thought she might be able to hit up some old friends for money. Maybe even put together another crew, chase Davis away. But Davis just kept screwing with us. Told us we could either deal with him or his boss, and better the devil you know.” He shrugs limply. “I told him the bookie’d be my last job. With Ally gone, I wanted out, even if that meant leaving the park. And now . . . ”

He gestures weakly to their surroundings—the cinderblock walls, the dingy window, the metal table and chairs—before dropping his hands back into his lap. Phil frowns, his own brow furrowing, and he only discovers how tightly he’s gripping Clint’s hand when Clint nudges their shoulders together. He blinks, and Clint raises his eyebrows.

“Sorry,” Phil mutters, loosening his grip.

Clint shrugs. “I’ll return the favor later.”

On Phil’s other side, Foggy stops writing long enough to study Barney’s face. “Can you contact Davis at all?”

Barney shakes his head. “I tried, but he ditched his phone. And everybody else is as scared as me. Maybe worse, depending.” He tosses a glance in Phil and Clint’s direction, his expression so open and frightened that Phil’s stomach clenches. “When I told Ally I wanted out for good, she left for good,” he explains. “Told me that she’d figure out another way, whatever the fuck that’s supposed to mean. And me, I—” He sighs, and his gaze drops to the petition in front of him. “I don’t fucking know what happens next.”

In the tense silence that follows, Phil thinks back to that rainy night in June when his soaked, helpless brother-in-law had appeared on their doorstep. And despite the jail-issued sweat suit and scuffed slip-on shoes, Phil somehow sees the same man sitting across the table today, one who’s spent the last four months lost and _terrified_.

A man who wants to do the right thing for his son, no matter the cost.

The mere thought of P.J. steals Phil’s breath for a split second, and Clint raises an eyebrow at him. Phil shakes his head dismissively, and Clint peers at him before finally squeezing his hand. Reassuring him, instead of the other way around. 

Next to Phil, Foggy leans his elbows on the table. “Barney, what you need to understand is that what these people are doing is totally and completely illegal. And if we sue them, we can—”

“You think they’re afraid of a couple lawyers?” Foggy blinks, and Barney rolls his eyes. “Listen, I get that legal shit’s the only way you people know how to deal with problems, but me and the rest of the guys in the park, we’re not even speed bumps to these people. You know what I mean? We’re fucking roadkill, and not the kind that dings up your bumper.” He huffs and glances away. “No way I can change that.”

“Except you can.”

The sheer certainty in Clint’s voice, the _resolve_ , surprises Phil somehow, and he stares helplessly at his husband as he releases Phil’s hand. He ignores his brother’s bare-faced shock to reach out and grab his wrist, and Barney actually blinks for a half-second before attempting to pull away. Clint shakes his head, his grip tightening until his arm muscles clench, and Barney’s face slowly softens.

“Clint, I can’t—”

“Yeah, Barney, you can. And you know it, too.” Barney snorts and tosses his head, his fingers curling against the table, but Clint never glances away. “You did all this shit to take care of Ally and P.J. To be good to them, even in the face of everything these Colonial Investment assholes kept throwing at you. Just like how you worked to be good to me, back when we were kids. Like when we knocked over the convenience store, and you saved my ass.”

Alarm flashes across Karen’s face as she twists to gape at Clint. “You knocked over a—” she starts, but Wade slashes a finger across his throat. She purses her lips. “Right. Later.”

Barney huffs out breath that sounds almost like a laugh, but Clint barely even pauses. “Deep down,” he says, voice a little uneven, “you’re a good guy. You care. About your kid, your friends, your home. And this lawsuit, that’s how you prove it. How you show everybody how much you love them—and how you get the hell out of this. For good.”

His brother nods a little, his throat bobbing. When he finally lifts his head away from the petition, his eyes are wide and damp. “I won’t have anywhere left, Little B,” he murmurs, his attention focused entirely on Clint. “I lose the trailer, that’s it. I’ve got nothing to my name.”

“Except us.” Clint twists to blink at Phil, but Phil just reaches forward and covers Barney’s hand with his own. “No matter what happens next—with your cases, with the park, with _life_ —you’ll always have both of us. No question.”

And next to him, Clint smiles. “Exactly what he said,” he agrees, and squeezes his brother’s wrist.

 

==

 

“Should I apologize for Victor tonight or next session?”

Gonzales asks the question with the perfect poker face, but next to him, his college-aged son snorts. “The universe needs to apologize for Victor,” he says, reaching for a leftover cheesecake bite. “He’s a blowhard.”

“He’s a respected professor,” Laura Gonzales corrects. When she slides the platter away, Billy rolls his eyes. “Just because you don’t like him—”

“He’s an egomaniac who googles social science articles because he wants to show off how smart he is.” Gonzales tries to hide his smirk behind his coffee mug, but Billy jabs a finger in his direction. “See? Two against one. And since he only comes to the group to show off . . . ”

Laura glances briefly at her husband, who raises his eyebrows. “What? You’re the one who keeps inviting him.”

“And you’re both absolutely no help.” When they shrug in unison, she sighs. “Phil, Clint, would you be interested in staying a little longer? Otherwise, these two might not last the night.”

Clint stops picking through the Chex Mix. “You do diapers?” he asks.

Laura frowns. “You know, on second thought . . . ” 

Her husband and son both grin, the punch line to a clearly inside joke, and her laugh lines crinkle even as she nudges Gonzales’s arm. By the time Billy resumes his assault on the cheesecake bites, Clint’s disappeared from the room again, and Phil excuses himself to trail after him. The living room’s still a mess of support group debris, and he leans against the doorway as Clint collects the last few coffee mugs.

The second Clint spots him, he snorts. “Don’t trust me with the Gonzales’s fancy dishes?” 

Phil shrugs. “Maybe I just like watching you work,” he replies, and Clint grins as he bends down for the next mug.

The grin feels like a gift, a break in the storm clouds of the last few days, and Phil actually feels himself smile as he crosses the room. Clint huffs and rolls his eyes when Phil settles hands on his hips, but he also tilts into the touch as he straightens up. 

“You’re acting like you miss me, boss,” he teases.

When Phil draws in a breath, all he smells is coffee and Clint’s cologne. “Maybe I do.” 

Clint purses his lips, his gaze trailing across Phil’s face but mostly lingering on his mouth, and for a few seconds, they just study one another in comfortable silence. All at once, Phil remembers thousands of other long looks—across the table at the diner, across his desk at the office, across the bed in Clint’s old apartment—and a little spike of heat rushes through his belly. Suddenly, he wants nothing more than to dig his fingers into Clint’s hair and kiss him breathless, like in the days before the Gordian knot of Barney Barton and Wiltshire Holdings.

Instead, he squeezes his husband’s hip and says, “Let’s finish helping out so we can head home.”

In truth, the last few days feel like the first half of a rollercoaster, and even as he collects discarded napkins, Phil’s waiting for the next break-neck drop. In addition to agreeing to the lawsuit against Colonial Investment Group and its mysterious tentacles, Barney had asked to formally waive his preliminary hearing. “I can work out a deal then, right?” he’d asked, his knuckles white and leg bouncing nervously. “Murdock’ll give me a fair shake if I explain how it all happened?”

“Maybe.” Clint’d shot Wade a murderous glare, but the defense attorney’d simply raised his hands. “Look, nobody but Murdock knows the secrets that rule that man’s heart. Or, more importantly, his pants, since his taste in bed-buddy is apparently kind of unpredictable.”

He’d jerked a thumb at Foggy and Karen, and they’d both rolled their eyes.

“But in my experience in other, generally more interesting counties,” Wade’d continued, “prosecutors want to be firm, fair, _and_ avoid protracted trials where your cute baby sits in the gallery and coos at the jury.” He’d leaned back in his chair and shrugged. “I think Murdock’d be mostly the same.”

Foggy’d nodded. “He’s reasonable,” he’d promised. “He won’t screw you over for the sake of screwing you, even with your record.”

“But let’s be honest, you’re totally looking at jail time.” Clint’s shoulders’d tightened at that, but Wade’d shaken his head. “Like Foggy said, you’ve got a record, and these charges are pretty bad. Even a plea deal’s gonna land you behind bars. Probably for a couple of years.”

Barney’d swallowed roughly, but he’d nodded. “I know,” he’d admitted, and Phil’d felt his own stomach sink. “Really, I think I always kinda knew.”

From that point on, the reality of Barney’s situation had loomed over Phil and Clint like a thick fog, shutting out the light and nearly suffocating them. Worse, though, had been Kurt Wagner’s assessment of the situation. “If there’s a chance your brother is going to prison, Clint, we need a plan,” the social worker’d explained, leaning on their kitchen island. “He will not be able to take custody, and with Ally still missing—”

Clint’d snorted, handing P.J. a few more Cheerios. “Ten bucks says Ally’s a million miles away by now. Probably with a better offer than being somebody’s mom.”

Frowning, Kurt’d glanced at Phil, who’d raised an eyebrow. The social worker’d sighed. “With or without Ally,” he’d continued, “we need a long-term solution. A meeting between you two and your brother.” Clint’d rolled his eyes, and Kurt’d jabbed a finger in his direction. “ _Nein_ , we cannot wait until he’s sentenced. We need to know what is happening with your nephew sooner, not later.”

Clint’d frowned. “Not what I wanted to say.”

“At least not in those exact words,” Phil’d pointed out, and Clint’d huffed as he’d wiped crumbs off P.J.’s chubby cheeks.

Now, Clint stands in the middle of the Gonzales’ living room, his brow furrowed as he studies one of their family photographs. It hangs over the fireplace, the centerpiece of all the artwork in the room, and the longer he stares at it, the more his expression softens. Phil watches him silently, unsure whether to distract him or leave him alone.

And worse, unsure whether the feeling that bubbles up into his chest is worry, love, or some hazy combination of the two.

“Blatant election propaganda,” Laura suddenly comments, and they both twist around to discover her in the doorway. She nods at the photograph with a wry smile. “Running unopposed after my predecessor died— Well, no one cares about your family values when they’re desperate to fill an empty seat. The second time around, though . . . ”

She shrugs, and Phil raises an eyebrow. “You needed to prove your humanity?” he guesses.

“Or just that I didn’t fabricate my big, blended family, but I appreciate your optimism.” Clint snorts at that, and she chuckles as she glances at him. “You were quiet tonight,” she points out. “Even more than usual. I hope Victor didn’t hit a nerve.”

Clint shakes his head. “One of our friends is a child welfare attorney,” he replies. “He talks a lot about the statistics for kids in foster care. How they all need permanent homes.”

“Ah, but how condescending is he?” He huffs, almost laughing, and Phil watches as Laura’s smile slowly fades. She purses her lips, her attention still focused almost entirely on Clint. “Have you talked to your case worker about it?” she asks.

Clint raises his eyebrows. “About?”

“Your nephew’s long-term stability.” Something like hurt sweeps across Clint’s expression, and Phil ignores the way his shoulders clench defensively. Laura shrugs. “Your nephew’s been with you for almost four months. I’d assume you’d want to—”

“We’re waiting for Barney’s criminal case to be resolved,” Phil interrupts. She flicks her sharp gaze in his direction, and he crosses his arms. “Until we know his future, we’re mostly stuck in a holding pattern.”

“And we’re maybe not up for taking care of him long term.” The sharp flash of hurt that floods Phil’s chest almost chokes him, and he digs his fingers into his arms to keep his expression neutral. Across the room, Clint shakes his head. “Never really had a half-decent role-model, and I definitely never planned on having kids. Even after landing in a long-term relationship, I . . . ” He trails off, his brow bunching slightly, and Phil swallows around the sudden thickness in his own throat. “I never planned on being the guy I am today,” Clint continues, his gaze drifting over to Phil. “And as glad as I am to be here, I think there’s maybe some limits on how much further I can go.”

Phil draws in a rough breath at that, his whole body taut, but over at the doorway, Laura nods. “You know, I spent most of my adult life convinced I’d never be someone’s mom,” she says, her bright eyes still trained entirely on Clint. “I was too focused on my career, too self-involved, to open myself up to that kind of ‘complication.’” He huffs at her finger quotes, and she smiles gently. “By the time I met Robert,” she continued, “I’d spent so much time and energy on everything besides having a family that I thought he’d walk right by. Instead, I helped raise his sons. And later, we ended up with two more children.” She pauses, shrugging. “And if you asked me tomorrow whether I wanted to go back in time and start a family in my twenties with some abstract, unknown children, I’d say no. But I’ll never regret the children that I ended up with, either.”

Clint studies her for a moment, his throat bobbing. “I don’t know how I feel about kids,” he finally says, his voice low and sticky.

Laura tilts her head to one side. “How you feel about kids in general isn’t important,” she replies. “What’s important is how you feel about the one little boy you already love.”

 

==

 

“She’s right, you know. In spite of all this shit, I love that kid.”

Clint keeps his voice low, almost at a whisper, and Phil tries to ignore the sudden thickness that rises in the back of his throat. Thanks to the half-light of their bedroom light, Clint’s face is hidden in shadow, and he ducks away as he peels off his t-shirt. He’d spent the whole drive home from support group staring out the car window, his lips pursed and his expression distant.

At home, he’d swept P.J. up for bedtime cuddles without a word to Phil or Kate. “Rough night,” Phil’d admitted, handing over a twenty.

“For you or him?” Kate’d returned, and Phil’d shaken his head.

Now, the quiet spreads out around them, and Phil watches the muscles in his husband’s back bunch and relax. “I know you love him,” he says.

“You grew up with this whole big family,” Clint continues, his attention trained on the shirt in his hands. “Cousins everywhere as a kid, nieces and nephews the second your sisters started settling down. I never had anything close to that. You counted my family on one hand.” He pauses to draw in a breath. “Sometimes, I think maybe I loved P.J. before he was born, ‘cause of all that. Like he counted as proof that maybe Barney and me could end up at least a little normal.”

Phil’s chest tightens. “Clint—” 

“But deep down, we’re still fucked up.” Clint twists to glance over his shoulder, his expression pale and haunted, and Phil fights against the sudden seasick feeling that spreads through his entire body. He squares his shoulders, bracing for the impact, but after a beat, Clint just shakes his head. “Every time I look at you with him, I see a kid and his dad,” he admits. “But after all the shit I grew up with, I can’t—”

“Except you can.” The certainty in Phil’s own voice surprises them both, because Clint blinks at him as he crosses the room. “I know you don’t think you know how to be a parent,” he says quietly, “but P.J. adores you. And when you’re together, I imagine this version of the world where we—”

“Except he needs to be okay.” Clint’s voice nearly cracks, and he glances away. “P.J.’s still little enough that he’s maybe got a chance, Phil,” he murmurs. “Somebody can raise him right, a thousand miles from the trailer park. From the baggage that comes out of being one of us.” He grips the t-shirt tight enough that his arms tremble. “And maybe the best thing for him, it’s . . . ”

He trails off with a shake of his head. When he swallows, a tremor runs through his body and leaves a trail of goose flesh in its wake. Phil watches him for a moment, his own breathing ragged and uncomfortable, but when he touches his husband’s hip, Clint tips into him.

“Come here,” he instructs, a murmur of his own.

Clint hesitates for a beat, but in the end, he turns and melts into Phil’s grip.

Phil draws him as close as humanly possible, threading the fingers one of hand through his hair while the other splays across his back, and when Clint sighs, all of the tension finally seeps out of him. For the first time in weeks, maybe in months, he stops fighting against his fear to curl his fists around handfuls of Phil’s shirt and hide his face in Phil’s neck. To be Phil’s husband again, instead of continuing this stupid, stoic game of chicken that’d started back in June.

A game they both keep playing, Phil reminds himself, and he presses his cheek against Clint’s hair.

They stand together for a long time, holding each other, until Phil imagines that they’re breathing in unison, their hearts beating as one. And even as Clint’s breathing evens out and Phil stops swallowing thickly, they cling to each other in the almost-dark.

Finally, Clint sighs. “What if loving him isn’t enough?” Phil’s fingers still without his permission, but his husband meets his gaze head-on. “What if I’m just not that guy? What happens then?”

Phil watches him for a moment—studies the raw terror that lurks in his stormy eyes—before he shrugs. “I choose you,” he replies. “No matter what else happens, I’ll always choose you.”

Clint’s throat bobs, but he nods roughly.

And Phil ignores the hot sting in his own eyes to wrap him up in another hug.

 

==

 

“Waiving this hearing binds you over for trial, Mister Barton. No second bites at the probable cause apple.”

In flats, Judge Eugenia Randall stands about six feet tall, and even when sitting behind the bench, her presence looms. She folds her hands over Barney’s case file and raises her eyebrows at him, waiting.

At the defense table, Barney fidgets slightly. Wade tips close to him, their vinyl-covered chairs nearly colliding, and he smoothes his jail-issued sweatpants before standing. “Uh, yes.” Wade pinches his wrist, and he flinches. “Your honor.”

“Your lawyer’s advised you about all this? The seriousness of the charges and the possible sentence you’re facing?” Wade rockets to his feet, his corduroy blazer flapping, and the judge raises a hand. “Your client first, Mister Wilson.”

Barney flicks his gaze over at his lawyer, who nods. “Yeah, your honor,” he replies. “Mister Wilson told me all about the possible consequences. I know what I’m up against.”

Judge Randall purses her lips, her sharp eyes studying him intently. When he fidgets again, he scratches the side of his neck. A pink flush climbs onto the tips of his ears.

Finally, the judge nods. “Are we looking forward to pretrial motions in this case or a plea hearing, Mister Murdock?”

“We’re in the early stages, judge,” Murdock begins as he rises, “but I’m thinking a plea hearing.”

At Phil’s side, Clint finally exhales.

The third of Union County’s four courtrooms feels the most like home to Phil, with wood paneling along three of the walls and an ugly mural decorating the fourth. The few brown stains on the ceiling are the only remnants of the water main break that destroyed the courtroom almost twenty years ago, and Phil studies them for a moment as the lawyers and judge discuss possible dispositions for Barney’s case. Phil considers pointing them out to Clint—distracting him a little from the proceedings, which are mostly a formality—but seconds before he touches his husband’s wrist, a tiny fist smacks him in the chin.

“Ree-oh,” P.J. instructs, shoving a spit-sticky Cheerio in Phil’s face. Phil raises a finger to his lips, but the damage’s already done; the two officers in the front row of the gallery glance over their shoulder, and on the bench, Judge Randall frowns. 

P.J. frowns, too, but not at the unwanted attention. “ _Ree-oh_ ,” he repeats. When Phil shakes his head, the baby squirms. “Ca _ree_ —”

“Here,” Clint cuts in. He plucks the Cheerio from their nephew’s hand and pops it in his mouth. “Done, okay?”

P.J. grins and claps his now-empty hands.

And at the defense table, Barney smiles.

Despite their conversation with Laura Gonzales—and, more importantly, the conversation in the dark of their bedroom later that night—Clint still won’t discuss any long-term plans for P.J., and as urgently as Phil wants to concoct a plan, he respects Clint’s need for time. After all, Clint’d whispered the phrase against the curve of Phil’s ear that night, a curse and a promise caught between needy kisses: _need to think about it, need a little time_. And so, instead of backing Clint into a corner and demanding an answer, Phil smiles at him over breakfast every morning and hands him their nephew for bedtime cuddles, waiting.

And every time Clint answers to _ca_ or _da_ without flinching, well, that feels like a tiny victory.

P.J. reaches for Clint as Murdock reviews the prosecution’s allegations against Barney, his whole body wiggling, and Clint fakes a sigh as he hefts the toddler into his lap. P.J. flops back against his chest, his head tipped up to study his uncle’s face, and Clint brushes hair off the baby’s forehead as his attention wanders back to the proceedings. Really, the hearing is just a formality, one of the many hurdles to leap before Barney’s able to officially enter into a plea. 

But Clint watches intently, anyway, his jaw tightening as Murdock reviews the allegations underlying the electronic store robbery. “Shit,” he mutters. 

Phil glances over at him, frowning. “You’ve read the police reports,” he murmurs. “Foggy and Karen included them as part of—”

“Except hearing it like that, without the mitigating factors?” His husband shakes his head. “It’s like hearing about a different person, you know? Like somebody other than my brother did all that.”

Phil reaches over and covers Clint’s hand with his own. “Yeah,” he agrees, “I know.”

Judge Randall walks Wade and Barney through officially waiving his hearing rights, and Clint only really exhales after she officially binds Barney over on a not guilty plea. The plea won’t stand for long, Phil knows—Wade and Murdock have already started working out a deal—but somehow, it feels like one more step in the right direction. “The sooner he pleas,” Foggy Nelson murmurs from behind them, “the sooner we can file an amended petition that includes all the duress and extortion.”

Clint shrugs. “Pretty sure he’d incriminate himself if it meant screwing those assholes,” he comments over his shoulder.

“And except for the probable ethical violation wrapped up in that, I’d be all for it,” Foggy replies. Clint snorts, and the other man shrugs. “We still on for our planning meeting after this? Kate brought all the paperwork.”

P.J.’s head immediately perks up. “Kay?” he asks, peering up and down the gallery rows. When he fails to spot his second-favorite babysitter, he blinks owlishly at Phil. “Kay?” 

“Maybe after we see your dad,” Phil promises. P.J. stares at him, his tiny face still hopeful, and Phil can’t help his smile. “I fear the day you’re old enough to ask for a dog.”

“ _Gog_!” P.J. crows, and Phil cringes.

At the bench, however, Judge Randall just shakes her head. “And on that note,” she says, “court’s adjourned for the day. I’ll see you in a few weeks, Mister Barton.”

They all rise as instructed, and Foggy claps them both on the shoulder before rushing off to claim one of the nearby conference rooms. Wade and Barney linger for a few seconds, the attorney whispering and gesturing wildly while his client nods. More than once, Clint adjusts P.J. on his hip, almost bracing himself for his brother’s glance, but Barney keeps his attention on his lawyer.

At least, until Wade steps away to gather his papers. Because then, Barney turns his attention to the back of the courtroom. 

His whole body softens, head to toe, as he spots his son. He waves, almost shy, and P.J. sticks his fingers in his mouth. They stare at each other for a few long seconds before Barney says, “Hey, P.J. You being good?”

P.J. tips his head against Clint’s shoulder, half-hiding his face, and Barney’s expression falls. “We’re bringing him to see you,” Phil promises while Clint whispers encouragement to their nephew. “A visit before we go over the petition with Foggy.”

Barney nods. “That’d be nice,” he replies, his voice catching slightly. “Been a while since I saw him, I’d—”

“Mister Barton?” the court officer interrupts, and Barney snaps his jaw shut. He casts them one last, heartbroken glance before being led away.

Clint, his head still tipped toward the baby, sighs. “Gotta stop being so shy all the time, buddy,” he chides, and strokes a big hand down his back.

“Children are sometimes so good at self-preservation.”

The sound of an unfamiliar voice catches Phil off guard, and he stops reaching for the diaper bag to glance toward the courtroom’s double doors. The man standing there, just inside the room, is almost perfectly nondescript; he’s in his thirties, with well-manicured brown hair and an expensive suit and glasses. He smiles easily. “They’re perceptive, children,” he says, shrugging. “Afraid of the dark, but only because they know what’s waiting just outside the light.”

Phil glances at Clint, who roll his lips together. “Do we know you?” he asks.

“Oh, no, Mister Barton. I’m an unknown. But you, on the other hand . . . Where should I start?” Clint bristles, his shoulders tightening under his jacket, and he draws P.J. closer as the stranger steps away from the door. “Your slightly tumultuous career, perhaps? Or do you want to start with your wayward youth and work forward to today?”

A hot spike of anger flickers in the pit of Phil’s stomach, and he grits his teeth together. “If you’re trying to intimidate us—”

“Intimidate you, Mister Coulson?” the man asks, raising his eyebrows. Phil curls his hands into fists, but the stranger just shakes his head. “From what I understand about your long history, well. You’re a hard man to frighten. All about the dogged pursuit of justice.” He smiles. “You’d actually make a good judge, now that I think about it. Apart from being married to a former felon.”

“My record got expunged,” Clint spits, his tone sharp enough that P.J. hides his face in his uncle’s shoulder. “And whatever the hell you’re selling, we’re sure as shit not buying.”

“Except a sale would imply we have equal bargaining power, Mister Barton, and we both know that’s not true.” The stranger steps into the row in front of them, his face still placid even as Clint’s expression hardens. “But since you both seem like astute, sensible men,” he continues, “I’ll make this simple. Tell your brother to dismiss the civil lawsuit he and his attorneys just filed.”

Something deep in Phil’s gut coils around itself, but he pushes the feeling away. “Or what, exactly?”

“Or he’ll lose.” The stranger purses his lips, his brow furrowing. “Well, really, losing’s inevitable. What’s less inevitable is the ripple effect this case might have on your family. Or on other people. Maybe even people you know.” He shrugs. “I really can’t predict the future. I can only ask that your brother do the right thing.”

“By rolling over?” Clint demands. 

“By allowing this development to go forward unimpeded,” the stranger replies, “and going quietly into that good night.” Clint’s jaw twitches, and the other man smiles. “Regardless, it was very nice to meet you both. You too, P.J.”

He reaches out to touch one of P.J.’s feet, but Clint jerks the baby away. P.J. jumps, clearly startled; when he notices the tension in his uncle’s body, he immediately starts fussing. Clint shoots the stranger a deadly glare before tipping his face down to hush the baby.

The stranger shakes his head. “Like I said,” he comments, “children are very perceptive.”

And Phil barely waits for the doors to swing shut behind him before he tells Clint, “I’m calling courthouse security.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few notes about the posting schedule, comments, and the general state of affairs:
> 
> 1\. At this point, replying to comments on previous chapters feels a little futile, although I might try to hit them sometime during a lull in my existence. That said, starting with this chapter, I _will_ be replying to comments again. I will also be replying to comments on "The Promise of Light" (Natasha's Christmas story, which you can read [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5524079)) sometime in the next few days. I feel horrible about falling behind on comments, and I will be better in this new year.
> 
> 2\. As of this posting, I am bufferless on this story. My hope is to keep my nose to the grindstone for the last three chapters, therefore avoiding any sort of delay, but there is always a small chance I might need to push back some posting dates. I will be loud about it on [my tumblr](http://the-wordbutler.tumblr.com) if that occurs.
> 
> 3\. I know that this story suffered because of my health issues. I read my more recent chapters and my other stories, and I see a noticeable difference. I can't really apologize for that, because my health problems are mostly outside of my control, but I wanted to say that yeah, trust me, I know. The good news is that I'm working with my doctors to come up with a permanent solution for the worst of these problems. The last six months have felt like a roller coaster, but I feel like the worst parts of this ride are finally coming to an end.
> 
> Thank you all for bearing with me during the rough patches. I'm really working hard to be more accountable to myself and the people and things I love in 2016, and the MPU is part of that. It won't be a full sea-change, I am sure, but hopefully, you'll notice a difference. Or at least, more words.
> 
> Look forward to a one-shot coming sometime in the next few weeks, and the next chapter of Sua Sponte (barring all disaster) will be up around this time on January 21. And like I always say: I could not do this without you guys.


	14. Facing Down Goliath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Phil and Clint deal with the immediate emotional aftershocks of their threatening visitor. But more than that, they deal with the long-term consequences of the last few months in the form of an uncomfortable lunch—and a discussion with Barney.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Depending on the state, you can use “someone else forced me to commit this crime” as a defense. However, in many places, the defense is only available if the other person is threatening to hurt or kill someone else. In other words: the threat needs to be a big one.
> 
> And thanks as always to my beta-readers, Jen and saranoh, who caught some seriously repetitive word choices. They are stars.

“Okay, yeah,” the court officer says, scratching a hand through his hair, “I get where you’re coming from. Trust me on that, okay? But I can’t do anything unless you calm down.”

“Oh, I’m fucking calm,” Clint spits. When he punctuates his sentence by kicking a garbage can, Phil cringes.

In Barney’s lap, P.J. howls.

The conference room in the Union County District Attorney’s Office reminds Phil of a sepia-toned photograph from the 1970s, complete with worn wood paneling, gold-beige drapes, and creaky vinyl chairs. A whiteboard with scrawled case assignments hangs crookedly on one wall while an ancient coffee pot hisses in the corner. The sun glints white off the building across the street—City Hall, if Phil remembers correctly—and the glare nearly blinds everyone in the room.

Tears streaming down his cheeks, P.J. pushes away from Barney’s chest to reach for Clint, but Clint keeps pacing tight circles around the conference table. Barney sends Phil a panicked glance, and Phil shrugs helplessly. “He’s just scared,” he says, which is mostly true. “He’ll calm down in a minute.”

“Everybody’s calm,” Clint growls again.

Wade grimaces. “Yeah, I’m not sure that’s the word you actually want.” Clint twists to glare at him, and he raises his hands like a character caught in a cartoon stick-‘em-up. “Look, I know you think you’re calm, but as an unbiased observer of the human condition, I’m pretty sure—”

“Wade?” Kate Bishop interrupts, her tone sharp.

“Yeah?”

“Please shut up.”

Wade frowns, his brow furrowing as he tosses a glance in Phil’s direction. Phil raises his eyebrows expectantly, and the other man rolls his lips together. Across the table, Foggy and Karen continue flipping through the pile of documents from Wiltshire Holdings and Colonial Investments as though they expect some helpful nugget of information to materialize out of the blue. Behind them, Matt Murdock stands with one hand on the back of Foggy’s chair, his fingers nearly brushing his shoulder. Every time Clint paces past him, his expression tenses slightly, but Phil recognizes the almost-grimace as worry. And all the way at the far end of the table, Kate slides Barney an almost-empty cup of water.

“He likes drinking out of other people’s cups,” she tells Barney conspiratorially. Proving her point, P.J. stops crying to stare at her. “Give him a drink, maybe he’ll calm down.”

“Yeah?” Barney asks, offering the cup to his son.

P.J. blinks, frowns, and knocks it right out of Barney’s hand.

The crying starts again, more distressed than frightened, and Phil resists his urge to sigh. Calling court security about the vague, menacing stranger in the expensive suit had produced just one unconcerned court officer, Will Simpson. And rather than chase down the “unknown,” as the man had called himself, Simpson had shooed everyone associated with Barney’s case into the most secure room available: the district attorney conference room. “Secured doors coming in and out,” he’d explained even as Murdock had frowned at his back. “Best way to lock you all down.”

“We’re not the people you should be locking down,” Clint’d retorted. 

Simpson’d snorted. “You want me to go running down the empty hallways with my taser? Because until I know exactly what I’m looking at, the best I can do is—”

“He threatened us,” Phil’d cut in without thinking. Simpson had blinked at him, and Phil’d shaken his head. “Not in so many words,” he’d admitted, “but he said Clint’s brother needs to drop the case, and our nephew . . . ”

When his explanation had finally failed him, Simpson’d planted a hand on his shoulder. “And that’s why I want to talk to you all first,” he’d said, steering Phil into the conference room.

“Okay, look, I know you’re all worried,” Simpson says, and he raises a placating hand when Clint shoots him a sharp look. “But so far, all anybody’s told me is that some guy nobody recognized threatened you guys. I need something more than that. Like what he looked like.”

Clint immediately huffs out a breath. “Like a clean-shaven Tony, but only if Tony learned subtlety,” he mutters. Despite himself, Phil almost smiles.

Simpson, however, just frowns. “And this Tony person is—”

“The man was in his mid-thirties,” Phil breaks in, ignoring Wade and Kate’s shared smirk. “White, average build, brown hair. Expensive glasses, expensive suit.”

“And an expensive haircut,” Clint adds. When Phil frowns slightly, he shrugs. “What? I know the difference between a guy who stops at Supercuts and a guy who pays for it.”

“He was polished,” Phil finishes, and Clint nods roughly. “Professional. Probably not someone off the street.”

Clint stops pacing long enough to slump back against one of the walls. “And he knew.” Simpson glances over at him, and he rubs a hand over his face. “About Barney’s case and the shit at the trailer park. Everything we’re worried about, he knew.”

His eyes wander over to where P.J.’s sucking on two of his fingers and whimpering quietly. Something deep in Phil’s stomach—deep enough that the worry and fear barely reaches it—clenches, and Phil swallows as he glances away. Luckily, Foggy picks that moment to raise his head. “Could he have been Davis?” he asks.

“Nah,” Barney answers with a shake of his head. “Davis is a black guy. Tall and kinda rangy, nothing like this asshole.”

Clint’s mouth twitches a little at the description, but Simpson just frowns down at his notepad. “Polished white guy in a nice suit. Never seen him before, not named Davis. Yeah, that’s helpful.”

Both Barton brothers square their shoulders defensively, and Murdock’s grip on the back of Foggy’s chair tightens enough that the vinyl creaks. Karen, on the other hand, just sighs. “Knock it off, Will.”

Simpson scowls at her. “I—” he starts, but he snaps his mouth shut the second she cocks her head at him. 

Clint rolls his eyes, the disgust in his expression almost palpable, and Phil sighs as he loosens his tie a little further. Intellectually, he realizes that Simpson’s right: the stranger probably left the second he finished threatening Barney and P.J., and the description definitely leaves a lot to be desired. But no matter how hard he fights to apply logic to the situation, his heart still dips and clenches every time he thinks of the man in the navy suit reaching for P.J. 

P.J.’s not his son, but Phil loves him.

He glances at the baby—tear-stained and whimpering, his face halfway hidden against Barney’s jail-issue sweatshirt—and his stomach sinks. When he tears his eyes away, he discovers Clint staring at their nephew. His throat bobs, and Phil knows without a second thought that his husband’s fighting against the same crashing tide of emotions.

“Look,” Simpson says, and both he and Clint jerk their heads up. “Threatening you, yeah, that’s a problem. But there’s nothing that can happen in this building, okay? We’ve got metal detectors and officers in pretty much every hallway. I’ll do a sweep before you leave, but he’s not going to mess with you anywhere near here.”

“Yeah, ‘cause that’s the issue,” Clint retorts. Simpson’s jaw tightens, but Clint just throws up his hands. “We don’t think he’s gonna jump us in the bathroom. We just need to know who he is.”

“And how do you expect me to figure that out?” the officer retorts. “We’re in a courthouse. Professional guys in nice suits are kind of a dime a dozen around here.”

The officer gestures in Murdock and Foggy’s general direction, and Foggy huffs as he rolls his eyes. Across the table, Wade scowls. “First, Matt, you should know that Officer Steroid there—”

“Excuse me?” Simpson demands. Karen bites down on the edges of a smile.

“—pointed to you as one of the well-dressed guys in suits despite the fact your haircut is clearly from Supercuts. And second,” Wade continues, even as Murdock frowns, “he left _me_ out of the running, which is kind of unfair. I mean, my socks even match today.”

“First time in three weeks,” Kate mutters.

Clint waits until Wade finishes scoffing to twist back to Simpson. “Don’t you have any real security?” he presses, and Phil hears the urgency creeping into his tone. “Video surveillance? An ID scanner at the door? Something to keep track of who the hell comes into this—”

“Into a public building?” Simpson finishes for him. He snorts and crosses his arms, but Simpson raises his hands. “We’re in the county courthouse. It’s a historical landmark. We don’t keep it on lockdown.”

Clint’s shoulders tighten. “Well, maybe you should.”

“Like how you keep yours in Suffolk County?” Simpson ignores the way Clint’s jaw clenches to shake his head. “Like I said, I’m going to do another sweep,” he explains. “After that, I’ll send around the description to the guys at the force, but that’s all I’m able to do. Just like how, after you call your cop friends, you’ll be stuck, too.” He glances around the room, and for the first time, his expression softens. “For what it’s worth,” he adds, “I’m sorry. About all this. I know that you’re probably freaked out.”

Clint rolls his eyes. “We’re not—” he starts, but Phil raises an eyebrow. They stare at each other for a few seconds, separated by a massive conference table and the heavy silence that’s settled over the room, but finally, Clint sighs. “He threatened us,” he says again, the tension in his shoulders loosening.

Simpson nods. “Yeah,” he echoes, “I know.”

The door closes unevenly after Simpson leaves—another sign of the room’s age, Phil suspects—and the silence creeps back in, an elephant tiptoeing into the room. Over at the far end of the table, still cuddled on Barney’s lap, P.J. sniffles miserably and rubs his face with the back of his hand. No matter how often Barney strokes his fingers through his son’s hair, P.J.’s gaze keeps drifting between Phil and Clint.

Checking with his people, Phil thinks, and the panicked rage he’d felt in the courtroom spreads through his chest. Trusting his uncles to show him whether he’s safe.

He releases a long breath, his hand scrubbing over his forehead as Murdock twists in his general direction. “How serious do you think he was?” 

Phil raises an eyebrow. “Simpson?”

“No. The stranger. Do you think he actually plans on harming you, or did he just want to make a point?”

Still against the wall, Clint crosses his arms and purses his lips. His gaze sweeps across the room, drifting first to Karen and Foggy before lingering on the people he knows best: Kate, Wade, Barney, and P.J. By the time his eyes settle on Phil, Phil’s read a hundred different emotions in his husband’s expression, and he knows without a second thought that fear drives all of them. His stomach lurches, but when he tries to speak, his mouth feels sandpaper dry.

Finally, Clint cards fingers through his hair. “I don’t know,” he admits with a half-hearted shrug. “I don’t think he was carrying, but he sounded serious enough.”

Wade snorts. “Says the man who looks like he just got goosed by a ghost.”

Clint’s mouth twitches a little at that (or, more likely, at how hard Kate elbows the other man in the ribs), but Murdock just nods. He taps the back of Foggy’s chair a few times, almost lost in thought, before stepping away from the conference table. “Here’s what we’re going to do,” he decides, turning his face toward Clint. “You and Phil need to take P.J. home. Call the social worker in charge of his case. Call your police friends. Really, call anyone who you trust. And when you’re done, stay home for the night.”

“You say that like they have a social life,” Kate mutters, but Phil hears the nervousness caught in the joke.

Murdock smiles. “Professional hazard,” he replies, and he ignores the way Karen and Foggy scoff in unison. “I’ll call a few officers I know, just in case this more-subtle Tony Stark raises any red flags with them. But otherwise, keep your eyes open and trust Simpson.”

Clint scowls. “Easy for you to say.”

“Simpson might not be the, uh—”

“Sharpest tool in the shed?” Wade suggests. “Brightest crayon in the box? Strongest-scented candle in the Yankee Candle sam—”

“Despite how it looks,” Murdock amends, cutting Wade off, “he’s a good officer. I trust him. You can, too.”

Clint glances away, his body tipping toward the window, but he nods, too. Phil expects him to drop out of the conversation—to bury himself a little in his own thoughts, at least until they head out to the car—but after another few seconds, he looks over at his brother. 

“You gonna be dumb?” he asks, and Barney snorts even as he rolls his eyes. “Barney, I’m serious. This asshole wants you to drop the case, and I don’t know—”

“I’m locked up,” Barney interrupts, waving off Clint’s immediate glare. “I know enough people in county with me that I’m probably safe. You, on the other hand . . . Well.” He tosses a brief glance in Phil’s direction before tipping his head down toward his son. “You need to worry about more than you this time, Little B.”

Phil rolls his lips together as his husband’s shoulders soften. “One of the people I’m supposed to worry about’s my big brother, you know,” he murmurs.

Barney shrugs. “Save it for next time,” he replies, and leans down to kiss P.J.’s hair.

 

==

 

“Not sure how I feel about this ‘look out for the creep’ safety plan.”

Phil lifts his head just as Clint appears in the doorway, and for a few seconds, he studies their reflections in the bathroom mirror. Even with Clint leaning against the doorjamb and Phil’s face still dripping with water, their similarities outweigh their differences. For instance, they’re both creased from exhaustion, their faces pale and their shoulders slumped. They’re in slouchy pajamas and sport matching stubble. Worse, Phil realizes, his own hair sticks up at funny angles, a thinning forty-something interpretation of Clint’s messy spikes.

He pats his hair down before reaching for his towel. Behind him, Clint snorts and hides a smile.

“I’m not sure what else Kurt can do,” Phil admits after another beat, and he’s not surprised when Clint’s smile disappears. “We called the police, and the Union County authorities are looking into it. Short of building a moat around the house, there’s nothing—”

“I’m just so fucking tired of feeling helpless,” Clint interrupts, and for the first time all day, the fear in his voice overrides the anger. Phil rolls his lips together as the other man rubs the side of his neck. “Ever since Barney showed up back in June, we’ve been behind this eight ball, you know? Three steps behind, scrambling to keep up with him and work and the kid. And now, this asshole threatens Barney and us, and I . . . ”

The words slip away in a little huff of breath, and Clint shakes his head instead of finishing the thought. Phil studies him for a moment—memorizes the deep trenches of his forehead, the fine lines around his mouth, the soft shape of his shoulders—before abandoning his towel on the vanity. Clint glances up when Phil crowds into his personal space, and he shivers when Phil rucks up his t-shirt enough to touch his bare sides. Finally, though, he snorts. “If you think you’re gonna distract me with sex—”

“I believe in us, Clint,” Phil says, and he watches as Clint blinks in obvious surprise. “We were behind the eight ball with Killgrave and Laufeyson, and we survived. Hell, we put an eight ball in our own path when I went to Denver, and I still convinced you to marry me.” Clint snorts lightly, and Phil nearly smiles. “I don’t know who threatened us,” he presses, “but I don’t really care. Because when the dust settles and the smoke clears, we’ll still be standing there. No eight ball in sight.”

Clint’s narrows his eyes, his sharp gaze sweeping across Phil’s face. “Really had to grab my metaphor and run with it, didn’t you?”

Phil shrugs. “Like you always say, you’re great at metaphors,” he replies, and Clint rolls his eyes even as he drags Phil in for a kiss.

He kisses Phil slow and lazily, his pace unhurried as Phil presses him against the bathroom wall. One hand cups the back of Phil’s neck, pinning him in place, and Phil sighs into the kiss even as he splays his hands over Clint’s sides. Clint rolls his hips forward, a silent plea for more contact, and the silence evaporates into a needy moan the second Phil strokes a thumb over his jutting hip bone. “Missed you,” Clint murmurs, and it feels more like a promise than anything else.

The seconds stretch and bend, and time slips away from Phil even as Clint slides closer, one hand tangling in the back of Phil’s hair while the other spreads across Phil’s back, demanding more leverage. Phil swears into Clint’s mouth as he fumbles with the drawstring of his own sweatpants, and Clint breaks the kiss for the express purpose of laughing against Phil’s neck.

The laugh transforms into a moan when Phil shoves their clothes away and ruts their hips together.

Heat coils in Phil’s belly, sharp and urgent, and he releases Clint’s side to grab his hair and guide him into the kind of demanding kiss that immediately steals both their breaths. Clint grunts as he snakes a hand between them, his palm rough and urgent, and Phil almost unravels right there. Instead, he rolls his hips against Clint’s, falling into the kind of uneven rhythm that leaves them both panting.

Clint presses their foreheads together, his eyes searching Phil’s. Phil holds his gaze as long as possible, until his thighs tremble and he finally shudders apart.

He clings desperately to Clint as he follows Phil over the edge, their chests heaving together and their legs shaky from the exertion. He huffs a laugh when Clint unsubtly wipes his hand on his own t-shirt, and Clint smirks. “Got a better idea, boss?” 

“Not one I can follow through on,” Phil admits, and Clint grins before kissing him again.

Ten minutes later, their mess shoved into the hamper and mostly forgotten, Clint stops stroking his fingers through Phil’s chest hair to glance up at him. “You believing in us doesn’t fix the helpless feeling,” he says, and Phil rolls his lips together. “‘Cause no matter how much you trust us, we’re dealing with other people. Shit that’s a thousand times bigger than both of us combined.”

Phil trails fingers down the back of Clint’s neck, and he smiles when Clint shivers slightly. “We’ve faced Goliath before and won,” he points out. “I think we can do it again.”

“You sure about that?” Clint asks.

Phil shrugs. “Maybe, maybe not. But after the last few months, I need to believe that this threat means nothing and that Barney will win this lawsuit. Anything else . . . ”

The words stick in the back of his throat, escaping him, but Clint just nods. “Yeah, I know what you mean,” he replies, and presses a little closer to Phil’s side.

 

==

 

“Uh, boss? Think we’ve got a problem.”

The note of actual worry in Clint’s tone slugs Phil straight in the center of his stomach, and he jerks his head up from his cell phone just in time to collide with his husband’s back. They’re standing in the dining area of the hot wings place just down the street from work, surrounded on all sides by tables, sports broadcasts, and of course, the smell of barbeque sauce. Phil’d spent the better part of the morning daydreaming about a lunch of wings smothered in their tangy mango-habanero sauce (with a side of onion rings, naturally), but his hunger recedes the second he notices the twitch in Clint’s jaw.

Standing at the head of a table with ten—no, actually, fifteen—chairs, Tony Stark raises his hands. “Whatever you think we’re doing, we’re probably _not_ —”

Seated at his husband’s right, Bruce sighs. “Tony, we talked about this.”

Tony wrinkles his nose. “Okay, fine,” he amends. “We’re here today to stage an intervention before you two burn down your relationship _and_ our office with your barely contained angst.” Bruce rolls his eyes, and Tony scowls at him. “What? You said honesty is the best policy, and since you won’t let me play the U2 song—”

“You mean since you ran out of data and _can’t_ play your U2 song,” Maria mutters from a few seats away.

“—I’m not beating around the bush.” He waits until Bruce purses his lips in obvious defeat to glance back in Phil’s direction. “We’re worried about you,” he explains, “and about the trickle-down effect of your weird marital stoicism. And in this office, the only way to demonstrate that worry is through—”

“An intervention,” Phil finishes.

Tony shrugs. “It was either that or a surprise wedding,” he replies, and Phil snorts.

Clint rolls his eyes (whether at Tony or the entire situation, Phil’s not sure), but he knocks their shoulders together briefly before heading for one of the empty chairs near the middle of the table. But for some reason he can’t name, Phil lingers. He studies all the familiar faces waiting for him—the usual suspects from their usual lunch groups, plus Darcy, Wade and, weirder still, Kate Bishop—and instead of dread, his chest wells up with something like _hope_. 

Ever since their run-in with the mysterious and still-unidentified stranger, Phil’s felt a haze looming over them, a dense fog of crystalized fear and paranoia. At night, he’s tossed and turned, fighting against the covers and waking up breathless; during the day, he’s searched mugshot databases and grainy copies of the judicial complex security feed, desperate to pin down their mystery man. And the more the answers had eluded him—the more they _still_ elude him, even now—the more he’d felt the worry clawing at his chest and throat.

The more he’d felt the helplessness he’d tried to chase away that night in their bathroom, he thinks, and he shakes his head to clear away the cobwebs.

But right now, standing in front of a table of their friends, nameless strangers and uphill battles against shadowy corporations fade away only to be replaced by Tony’s expectant (if slightly nervy) stare. 

Phil raises an eyebrow. “Which one?”

Tony blinks in obvious confusion. “Which what?”

“U2 song.”

At the table, Bucky chokes on his soda, but Tony just grins. “‘Sometimes You Can’t Make it on Your Own,’ obviously,” he replies, and Phil smiles when the rest of their friends groan.

A basket of appetizers (minus all the fried pickles) waits in front of Phil’s spot at the table, and he helps himself to a couple onion rings and one of Clint’s jalapeño bites. Clint scowls at him—at least, as much as anyone can scowl while sucking ranch dressing off their thumb—and Phil shrugs as he passes the basket down to Steve. But he’s barely unrolled his napkin when Maria says, “We’re worried about you.”

He raises an eyebrow. “We couldn’t tell.”

“I think I overheard Wade talking about the two-hour wing challenge,” Natasha remarks, reaching for her drink. “What was it again? Three hundred wings in two hours?”

Surprised, Wade chokes on his soda. “Wait, you think Coulson might actually try it?” he asks. He grins when Natasha nods. “It’s actually the best deal in the restaurant. See, they bring your table—fifteen people max—three hundred of their five-alarm-fire death wings, and if the platter’s empty at the end of two hours, everything’s free. Plus, you win this t-shirt with a flaming chicken on it and _total_ bragging rights. Only catch is that you’re not allowed to leave the table for the whole two hours, but since that keeps you from binging and purging your way through the challenge, I think—”

Natasha raises a hand, and Wade immediately snaps his mouth shut. When she cocks her head to one side, Phil sighs. “Fine,” he says. “I know you’re all worried about us. We appreciate it, really.”

“Since when?” Clint mutters. Kate frowns and flicks her balled-up straw wrapper at him.

“Since we love our friends.” He scoffs and reaches for the wrapper, but Phil grabs it and tosses it in an empty appetizer basket. “But we’re just a little overwhelmed. Nothing we can’t handle.”

“You mean like your brother’s massive civil case?” Bucky asks.

“Or the criminal charges he’s still dealing with?” Steve chimes in, crossing his arms.

A few seats down, Peggy nods. “Or your adorable little nephew?” Maria, Jane, and Darcy all twist to frown at her, and she holds up her hands. “Just because I’m not in a hurry to change Max’s diaper doesn’t mean I can’t identify a cute toddler at a hundred paces.”

“And Astrid?” Jane asks.

Peggy wrinkles her nose. “Steals my crackers when I’m not looking, thank you.”

Thor laughs—at least, until his wife shoots him a pointed look. He adjusts his tie before saying, “Either way, it takes a village to raise a child. Or, at the very least, help from relatives and Darcy.”

“Damn straight,” Darcy says, brushing crumbs off her blouse. “You guys barely tell us anything about the little sucker. I had to hear about his cold from _that_ one.”

Almost everyone frowns when they realize she’s pointing to Tony, all the way at the far end of the table. He wrinkles his nose. “Caring about a toddler who scales me like Everest is _not_ an indictable offense.”

Pepper sighs. “Of all the possible comparisons—”

“And none of that,” Maria stresses, holding up a hand, “compares to the security concern you reported to Rhodey and Jasper.” Phil purses his lips, acutely aware that, next to him, Clint’s stopped chewing. “Didn’t think security’d mention it?” she asks, her tone sharper than usual. “Because an e-mail went out to everyone on the building’s safety committee, and from there—”

“That was private.” Clint somehow keeps his voice low and level as he reaches for his glass. “Nobody needs to know what’s going on with that except us. Same with Barney’s case. Same with—”

“Because our lives are private from one another all of a sudden?” Maria cuts him off, and he huffs as he glances away. “Look around the table, Clint. We’re not just coworkers, we’re family. We spend holidays together. Hell, most of us flew to Nebraska for your wedding.” Phil watches as Clint’s jaw loosens slightly. “Trust me from experience: nothing good comes of walling yourself off. From your friends or from your partner.”

At the end of the table, Tony snorts. “One unplanned pregnancy and she thinks she’s the expert on human relationships.”

“Says the man who revealed his darkest secrets as a witness at a child welfare hearing,” Maria retorts, and the two share a tiny grin.

Their waitress takes advantage of the sudden pause in conversation to ask for their orders, and immediately, three different people start talking Wade down from the two-hour challenge. Under the table, Phil touches Clint’s hand, and he smiles when his husband’s shoulders finally relax. “They’re our friends,” he says, and Clint sighs as he tangles their fingers together. “They mean well. They just don’t know how to do anything by halves.”

“I’d take them doing something by two-thirds over _this_.” Phil frowns slightly, but Clint just shakes his head. “I don’t wanna bog them all down with this shit, Phil,” he murmurs. “They all have enough going on without us throwing all our problems at them.”

“Sounds like the same reason we never talked about Denver.” When Clint snorts instead of replying, Phil squeezes his hand. “We have all our friends in one place, ready to listen. A captive audience, no kid drama from Bruce or boyfriend woes from Peggy.”

Across the table, Peggy huffs. “I heard that and think you should know I’ve sworn off men,” she informs him, but she also jabs a finger at Natasha’s little smirk. “No, not _that_ far off.”

“Even after a bottle of wine with Angie?” Pepper asks.

Peggy’s cheekbones flush. “On second thought, men are wonderful,” she amends, and Pepper hides her smile behind her glass.

Clint snorts at that, his expression finally brightening even as he runs fingers through his hair. When the last person (a defeated, downtrodden Wade) finally orders, he turns his attention back to Maria. “We can’t really talk about Barney’s criminal cases,” he confesses, “and the only news on the civil front’s that the other side moved to dismiss it. P.J.’s fine most the time, like normal kids. And the creep . . . ”

He shrugs, reaching for his water, and Phil sighs. “We still don’t know anything about him,” he explains. “The court officers in Union County did everything they could, but he’s basically a ghost. And while normally, we might be able to ignore that—”

A few seats away, Kate snorts. “Yeah, okay.”

“—his threats combined with the stress of Barney’s cases and P.J., it—” The words escape him for a moment, and he shakes his head. “There’s just a lot going on. More than we’re used to.”

“More than you can handle?” For the first time since Maria called their unofficial intervention to order, Steve uncrosses his arms to rest his elbows on the table. “The first thing you told me when I started my internship was to keep my head above water. And the second thing—”

“Was to ask for a life preserver when you need one.” Bucky mouths the words as Phil says them, and he smiles even as Steve snorts and rolls his eyes. “But the difference here is that there’s nothing any of you can do,” Phil stresses, and Clint nods in agreement. “You’re not the defendants in Barney’s civil suit or the judge who’ll sentence him for his criminal case.”

“Judge Eugenia Randall. Tallest, blondest cool drink of water in Union County since—” Darcy flicks a half-eaten fried cheese curd at Wade, and he scowls. “Hey, just because you’ve never practiced in front of her doesn’t mean—” 

“Didn’t you once call Nate the same thing?” Bruce asks.

Wade rolls his eyes. “C’mon, Banner. I called him the silverest, not blondest. Really.”

At least half the table, Bruce included, rolls their eyes at that, and Phil resists his urge to join them. At his side, however, Clint sighs again. “You guys can’t change anything that’s happening,” he tells their friends, and Phil hears the obvious resignation in his tone. “You can’t fix the messes for us. Really, the only thing you’re able to do is—”

“Listen?” Natasha finishes. Clint glances over, meets her eyes, and she shrugs as she leans her arms on the table. “You two have spent way too long caught up in your own world. No friends, no external support, just two men and a baby. Maybe it’s time you shared the load.”

Clint snorts. “You really wanna hear all of that?” he challenges. “‘Cause the only part we can really talk about’s the part with exploding diapers and booger-smeared throw pillows.”

Tony and Darcy shudder in near-perfect unison. At Tony’s side, Bruce rolls his eyes. “You held Amy’s hair when she threw up last week.”

Tony scowls. “Only because my husband abandoned me for a bunch of law students and my teenagers can’t be bought,” he grumbles, and his husband smiles. 

“We’re here,” Maria says from across the table, and the sincerity in her voice ties knots around Phil’s heart. “Whatever you need to offload, we’ll carry some of the weight.”

And at the other end of the table, Wade and Kate hum a very off-key rendition of Tony’s U2 song.

 

==

 

After a long lunch (but, thankfully, no five-alarm-fire death wings), Phil walks into the break room to discover Nick Fury already there. He crosses his arms over his chest, eyebrows raised, and waits until Phil grabs one of their official office coffee mugs to ask, “The rest of them set you straight, or you need round two?”

Phil rolls his eyes. “I should have known you put them up to it.”

“Me?” Nick repeats, and Phil shoots him a thoroughly unimpressed glance before reaching for the coffee pot. “No, you _know_ my style of working you through your feelings. Involves a lot of good whiskey and my wife’s death stare.”

Snorting, Phil shakes his head. “Whiskey’s not as good as ten years ago.”

“You put three kids through private school and tell me how good your whiskey ends up.” He smiles a little at that, but when he turns away from the counter, he discovers Nick watching him, his expression considerate. He thinks of their years of friendship—years fighting through some of the worst cases of their lives, never mind their personal lives—and guilt coils in his gut. 

Before he apologizes, though, Nick uncrosses his arms. “You good?” he asks.

Phil nods. “Until the next crisis, yeah. I think so.”

“Good,” Nick replies. He pushes away from the fridge and claps a hand on Phil’s shoulder. “Now, do me a favor, will you?”

“Sure.”

“Stop ignoring my goddamn text messages about whether you and Barton are okay,” he says, and he grins when Phil huffs out a laugh.

 

==

 

“Seven,” Clint repeats, and his voice catches. He clears his throat before shaking his head. “Seven years is a long time, Barney. It’s—”

“Good.” Barney shrugs, but he barely lifts his eyes from P.J. “You know how bad the laundry list looks. Seven’s probably the best I can get.”

There’s a certainty in his tone, a finality, and Clint huffs out a breath as he levers himself off the couch. The guard near the door frowns slightly, his hand reaching toward the doorknob, but Clint waves him off as he heads toward the window. Instead of meeting in the public visitation room, they’re squirreled away in a lounge of some kind, complete with threadbare carpet and orangey beige couches from the 1970s. “For security reasons,” a stone-faced officer’d explained as he’d unlocked the door. “Not because we’re worried about your brother, but because of the baby.”

Clint’d snorted. “You think we’d let something happen to him?” 

“I think I’m tired of Matt Murdock calling about Barton’s security,” the officer’d replied, ushering them inside.

Phil watches Clint for a moment, studies the way he glares out at the gray September sky before he finally glances back at his brother-in-law. Barney sits cross-legged on the floor with his back against the second couch and P.J. in his lap. Together, they flip through an aging _People_ magazine, pausing every few pages for P.J. to smack a photograph. “Gog!” he enthuses about some starlet’s fluffy terrier. When Barney snorts, the baby frowns. “Gog,” he repeats.

“Yeah, sorry, you’re right,” Barney follows up, raising a hand. “That one’s a dog. You caught me.”

P.J. rewards him with a brilliant grin and a goldfish cracker out of his snack bag.

“I get how steep the charges are,” Clint says a moment later, “but seven years, that’s . . . ” Blowing out a breath, he turns away from the window to slump against the cinderblock wall. “They held your home over your head. Backed you into a corner. That’s gotta count for something.”

“It’s why Murdock’s not pushing for longer. Why he’ll drop a couple of the charges long as I plead to what happened with the bookie.” Clint snorts, but Barney just shakes his head. “Wilson said the only time you grab a get outta jail free card’s when you commit a crime to keep somebody you care about from being killed. Nothing about your house.”

Phil nods. “Compulsion’s a limited defense,” he translates, and his husband rolls his eyes. “Murdock’s not required to consider it at all, even in a plea.”

“You know I hate the whole ‘count yourself lucky bullshit,’ yeah?” Clint ignores his frown to flop back onto the couch. “We’re fighting a war on two fronts, sure. And yeah, the civil case is the only way anything’s gonna happen to these assholes. But the rest of it just feels . . . ”

He throws his hands up in surrender, and Phil places a hand on his leg instead of trying to fill the silence. Over on Barney’s lap, P.J. stops stroking a picture of a woman on the red carpet to frown. “Ca?” 

Clint forces a weak grin. “Hey, kid.” P.J.’s brow crumples at his unenthusiastic tone, and when Clint sighs instead of pulling a goofy face, he knocks aside the magazine and the bag of crackers to stick out his hands. “No, buddy, just hang with your dad,” Clint says, dragging his fingers through his hair while P.J. wriggles impatiently. “We pulled a bunch of strings to get you here, you don’t need—”

“Pretty sure he knows what he needs,” Barney interrupts, and the guard hardly flinches when he springs to his feet. P.J. blinks at the sudden movement, but his confusion transforms into glee when Barney swings him around. His feet sway and dangle as his father half-walks, half-dances him across the room, and he’s squealing with laughter by the time Barney plops him in Clint’s lap.

He flops back against Clint’s chest, his cheeks red, and Clint’s little smile finally climbs into his eyes. He tips down to kiss his nephew’s hair while Barney drops onto the couch next to his brother. For one, blissful moment, Phil forgets that his brother-in-law’s wearing a jail-issued sweat suit and sees the three Barton boys as a cohesive unit.

As the family they desperately want to be, he thinks, and something in his stomach clenches. He draws in a breath, ready to say exactly that, but Barney beats him to the punch. “I know you think it’s fucked up,” he says, glancing at his brother. “Think it’s unfair, like— What’s that radio show thing you kept trying to get me to listen to? The one with the guy who killed his girlfriend.”

“ _Serial_ ,” Phil answers. “Which Clint hated for the first three episodes.”

Clint rolls his eyes. “You’re like a middle-aged hipster.”

“And you’re like a hipster in shittier jeans,” Barney informs his brother, and he grins crookedly when Clint elbows him in the side. “I know you think I’m getting screwed like the guy on that show,” he continues after a beat, “but we all know I don’t got a defense. Wrong decisions for the right reasons, maybe, but I did it. And now, I gotta live with it. And more than that, I gotta make it right.”

“Colonial Investments moved to dismiss your civil case, you know,” Phil remarks, and Clint huffs out a hard breath. He raises a hand. “They’re saying your allegations don’t show the kind of duress you’re claiming. And if they win—”

“They throw it out.” When Phil nods, Barney shakes his head. “Foggy told me all that yesterday. And he said they’ll go to court. Try to fight the bastards off.”

“Yeah,” Clint says, “but you could still lose.”

“Or I could win.” He frowns at that, but Barney smiles slightly, his eyes never drifting away. “I got a chance with this civil thing, you know? But I can’t win a criminal trial. Never in a million fucking years.” He shrugs. “But seven years, with time served and good behavior? I might make it home.”

He punctuates the sentence with a tickle to P.J.’s stomach, and Phil watches as something like hurt flickers across Clint’s face. He studies brother carefully, cataloguing the shape of his body under his sweatshirt and the dark circles under his eyes, and for a moment, Phil wonders if he’s ever stopped to think about Barney’s years catching up to him. 

But the second Phil thinks this, Clint shakes his head. “What about Ally?” he asks. “You were ready to marry her. She willing to wait it out?”

Barney snorts. “Hell if I know,” he mutters, his tone just the wrong side of bitter. Clint frowns, but his brother waves him off. “Ally’s long gone. And I’m pretty sure she doesn’t wanna fly straight. She likes the rush, you know? Likes feeling like she’s always on the edge of something blowing up.”

Clint nods half-heartedly, his gaze drifting back down to P.J., and the silence settles back around them. Phil tries to ride it out, to ignore the gnawing feeling that keeps see-sawing through his cut, but the second their nephew glances at him, his resolve crumbles. He wets his lips before asking, “What about P.J.?”

Barney purses his lips at the question, and next to him, Clint’s shoulders bunch like he’s waiting for a physical blow. The quiet that sweeps in feels thicker and heavier than before—at least until Barney raises his head. Because even as his throat bobs, his gaze sweeps between Clint and Phil. “I don’t worry about P.J. anymore,” he says. “At least, not as long as he’s with you.”

For one terrifying second, Phil forgets how to breathe, and he swears that his heart stutters and almost stops. At his side, Clint freezes like a deer in headlights, his eyes huge and his mouth hanging open. Twice, his jaw twitches, but he never speaks.

But the hand not holding P.J. curls against the couch cushion, and Phil thinks he spots a tremble.

“I don’t care what happens to me,” Barney continues, looking directly at his brother. “Never did, not even when everything with the park went to shit. Only one thing that mattered: keeping P.J. safe.” Clint rolls his lips together, his breathing rough, but Barney never glances away. “That’s why I brought him to you, Little B. ‘Cause out of everybody in the world, everyone I know, you’re the one I trust with my kid. You, and your guy.”

Clint shakes his head. “Barney—”

“You’re family,” Barney presses, and for the first time, his voice shakes. “You’re _our_ family. And long as P.J.’s got that going for him—long as he’s got his uncle looking out for him—I think he’s gonna be all right without his old dad.” He touches P.J.’s chin, his eyes damp as his son cranes his neck up. “Right, baby?”

And despite the churning feeling in his stomach, even Phil smiles wetly at P.J.’s brilliant, fearless grin. “Da.”

 

==

 

Late the next night, Clint rolls away from the wall to scrub a hand over his face. “Bruce and Tony, they’re gonna be Teddy’s— I forget the word. Permanent guardian or something.”

Phil ignores the way his pulse thunders in his ears as he glances up from his book. “Is this a new development?”

“Nah, not really.” Clint shrugs, his eyes still on the ceiling. “Guess they jumped back and forth between that and just letting him age out of the system, but they wanted something a little bigger than just shooing him out the door at eighteen.”

Phil snorts and shakes his head. “Like Tony’d loosen his death-grip on any of those kids long enough for that to happen.”

Clint almost smiles. “Gotta let the guy think he’s fooling _somebody_ , boss.”

Despite the tight feeling in his throat, Phil smiles at the familiar hint of humor in Clint’s voice. A million half-formed questions bounce around in his head, but when Clint finally glances over, they all melt away. Instead, they just sit there in the quiet of their bedroom, waiting for some invisible cue.

At least, until Sandy jumps up next to Clint and chirps at him.

He huffs at the cat, reaching over to scratch her behind the ears, and Phil bites back a sigh. They’d tried valiantly to keep up their normal Sunday routine—a jog while Kate babysat P.J., a breakfast of doughnuts (and slightly mashed bananas), a trip to the park for swings and dog-watching—but their meeting with Barney’d hung over their heads like an extra-persistent rain cloud. More than once, Phil’d tried nudging the conversation in that direction, but Clint’d shaken his head every time.

“I need to work it out in my head,” he’d said at one point. “‘Cause right now, every time I stop and think about it, it’s like trying to find a clear picture in a sea of static.”

Phil’d forced a smile. “Okay.”

The storm cloud had only darkened when Foggy called during P.J.’s afternoon nap. “Colonial’s attorneys moved the hearing up to next week,” he’d said. In the background, a woman’d shouted something, and he’d sighed. “Karen wants to make sure you know I’m talking about the motion to dismiss, not his criminal case.”

Phil’d frowned. “You’re not his criminal lawyer.”

“Exactly what I already told Karen.” He’d raised his voice on the last few words, and Phil’d almost chuckled. “They’re claiming an expedited hearing is better for their bottom line, but I don’t know. Something smells rotten.”

“Are we sure that’s not Colonial’s official business slogan?” Phil wondered.

Foggy’d snorted. “I think _screwing you with a smile_ is more their style, but I’ll pass the suggestion along.”

The memory distracts Phil enough that he reads three sentences without actually comprehending them, and he shakes his head to clear the cobwebs. He’s just finding his place when he hears Clint swallow. “Thing about the guardianship deal,” he continues, “is that nobody loses their rights. Teddy keeps the death benefits from his dad. Nothing breaks.”

Phil closes his book. “And you don’t need an adoption to be a family,” he says, his voice sticky in his throat. Clint glances over, his eyes soft but still expectant. “Robert says it all the time,” he reminds his husband. “Family’s more than a piece of paper or a DNA test. I think Tony knew that years before he became a father.”

“Or Steve knew and figured wrangling Stark into their family beat chasing after him like a sheepdog.” Phil snorts, and Clint flashes him a brief, brilliant grin. “I just—” he continues after a beat. “I keep thinking about seven years. How long that is, even with parole and good behavior.”

Phil ignores the lump in the back of his throat to nod. “Yeah.”

“And the more I think about it, the more all the shit from group floods back in. About how sometimes, you stumble on shit you never expected.” Clint shakes his head. “My whole life feels that way half the time. Law school, this job, _you_ . . . ”

He trails off, his gaze drifting back to the ceiling, and Phil reaches over to card fingers through his hair. He sighs at that, his eyes almost closing, and the silence sneaks back in. Phil tips his head back against the headboard and studies the same patch of paint above them.

A patch they both studied more than two years ago, that first time Clint spent the night.

“I never planned on any of this shit,” Clint continues after another few seconds, “but nobody else planned on it, either. Not Ally and Barney, not P.J., not you . . . ” He tilts his head until he catches Phil’s eyes. “We all got thrown into the middle of a big mess, and we’ve all gotta work our way out together. Even if trying scares the ever-loving fuck out of me.”

Despite his best efforts to hold onto his poker face, Phil knows his body betrays him. His breath shakes, his stomach clenches, and he swears his ears burn pink from _hope_. 

Somehow, though, he asks, “Meaning what, exactly?”

Clint pauses just long enough to draw in a deep breath. “Meaning that Barney’s right about us being there for P.J.,” he answers, and Phil swears a tiny smile crawls into his eyes. “We should be his guardians.”


	15. What's Right and What Matters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, there are wins and losses. And while the wins feel exhilarating, the losses— Well, Phil thinks that even the losses feel like some kind of punctuation, the end of the battle (and maybe the war).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a brief reference to the story [“Duty of Candor”](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1518497) in one of these scenes. If you’ve not read it, just know that Melinda made a tough decision many years ago that seriously impacted the trajectory of her career. Also know that “Duty of Candor” is sort of her and Fury’s great love story, and I am very proud of it. If, you know, you need something to read. 
> 
> Thanks as always to my beta-readers, Jen and saranoh, who constantly make my words better.

“Obviously, we’re not disagreeing with the State’s position. The State’s sort of our new best friends on this case, what with the plea deal and the reasonable sentencing recommendation. But since you’re allowed to hand out a shorter sentence if you want to, we kind of figured— Uh.”

Wade frowns, his brow crumpling, and he flips back through the file folder a little like a man possessed. Barney hisses something under his breath, and his attorney shakes his head. “Not lost, just misplaced,” he says. “Probably low-level step-daughter malfeasance, since we played ‘sue Dad for eating the last couple cookies’ this weekend, but I think I maybe—”

Up on the bench, Judge Randall raises her eyebrows. “Everything okay, counselor?”

Wade shoves the folder at Barney and reaches for his bag. “Right this second, no, but I’m heading in that direction.”

The judge nods, clearly biting back a smile, and from his spot at Phil’s side, Clint snorts and rolls his eyes. But the noise catches P.J.’s attention, and he immediately abandons his bag of crackers to smack himself in the mouth. “Shh,” he instructs, mostly blowing a raspberry.

Clint chokes on a laugh, and over at counsel table, Barney stops leafing through his own file to grin. Phil strokes their nephew’s hair. “You’re right about being quiet,” he praises, and P.J. flashes him a massive smile. “Uncle Clint needs to hush.”

Clint rolls his eyes. “Uncle Clint barely laughed. Not my fault—”

“Okay, found my notes!” Wade breaks in, waving a single sheet of paper in the air. “I’m good with continuing my argument about sentencing and everything, unless the Barton-hyphen-Coulsons need a couple more seconds to flirt.” He tosses a glance over his shoulder. “No judgment, because the one time I second-chaired with Nate, we _totally_ —”

Phil raises a hand. “We’re good.”

“Shh,” P.J. agrees, this time with a minor spray of cracker bits.

Judge Randall coughs, probably to hide her laugh. “Go ahead, Mister Wilson. Before Mister Barton’s family changes their minds.”

Wade nods. “Right, your honor. Thanks.” 

He straightens up to his full height and, for the first time in recorded history, buttons his jacket. The tweedy pattern clashes with his brown slacks, but still, he reminds Phil of an actual lawyer. A capable lawyer, Phil amends, and the knot in his stomach finally loosens.

Because today, as the trees outside the Union County courthouse slowly transition from green to orange, part of their four-month ordeal finally ends. 

Phil tries for a moment to track the last two weeks of their life, but as he listens to Wade run through all the allegations from Barney’s civil trial—the basis for allowing him a lesser sentence, really—the days all blend together. Work continues at the same break-neck pace, full of the usual hearings and completely hare-brained motions, and at home— Well, home involves a toddler who crawls at a break-neck pace all his own, opening cabinets and dragging himself to standing a thousand times a day. Most nights, P.J. “walks” in circles around the living room, steadying himself on the coffee table and couch but crashing to his knees whenever he tries to balance on his own two feet. 

Phil fears the day he discovers his center of gravity.

Clint, meanwhile, grabs his hands and guides him from one room to another, occasionally swinging him by his arms and listening to him squeal. They wander outside in the near-dark, P.J. pointing out falling leaves or passing cars, and share a glass of milk before bed. Like old men talking over a beer, Phil thinks occasionally, but at a coffee table instead of a bar.

But P.J. still prefers Phil for bath time and about three quarters of his diaper changes. And since finishing _The Last of the Mohicans_ with Clint, he and Phil read _The Secret History of Wonder Woman_ as a bedtime story.

Sometime in the next two weeks, after the dust from Barney’s sentencing and the motions hearing in the civil case clears, they’ll start paperwork to become P.J.’s permanent guardians.

In the meantime, Phil shifts the baby’s weight in his lap and bounces away all his complaints.

Back at counsel table, Wade scratches a hand through his hair. “But here’s sort of— I don’t want to call it a catch, because that sounds like a trick, and tricking people is definitely not my specialty. I’m an open book, mostly.” He pauses, his gaze drifting over his shoulder. “So, anyway, here’s the not-catch: Barney’s got a family. A baby, sure, but also a super-involved brother and brother-in-law who totally believe in him. They show up at all his hearings. They look after his kid. They’re sitcom-level there for him. Just need a theme song, and they’re good to go.”

From his place over at the prosecutor’s table, Matt Murdock sighs and shakes his head. But next to Phil, Clint sits up a little straighter, his chest puffing out. Like a preening bird, Phil thinks, and knocks their knees together.

“Shut up,” Clint mutters, but his laugh lines bunch.

“I think we all realize that Barney’s not really a probation candidate this time around,” Wade continues, turning back to the judge. “I mean, even knowing that he’s a victim of evil corporate puppet masters, I can’t in good faith ask for that. And Barney can’t, either.” From his seat at Wade’s side, Barney nods. “But seven years, that’s fair. And less than seven years? Well, your honor, that’s a gift horse we definitely won’t inspect, if you know what I mean.”

This time, Judge Randall definitely smiles. “Anything else, Mister Wilson?”

Wade shakes his head. “No, your honor. Thanks.”

“Mister Murdock?”

Murdock drums his fingers against the side of his case file before he rises. “We’d just ask that you go along with the sentencing recommendation we laid out in the plea agreement.”

The judge nods. “Thank you,” she says, her gaze immediately drifting in Barney’s direction. Like his brother, he rolls his shoulders back to sit up straight, and Judge Randall smiles. “That leaves you, Mister Barton. If you want to say anything, now’s your chance.”

“I—” Barney starts, but Wade immediately digs an elbow into his side. He jerks, frowning, and his expression only relaxes when his attorney waves at him to stand. He rubs a hand on the side of his neck before glancing up at the judge. “There’s no excuse for all the sh—stuff I pulled,” he says, his voice quiet in the almost-empty courtroom. “I can try to justify it, make it about keeping my family in our trailer and everything, but I knew it was wrong. Knew I was hurting people, including my neighbors. I—” 

The word trembles, and he snaps his jaw shut to shake his head. P.J. whines, sticking two fingers in his mouth for comfort, and Clint reaches over and rubs his leg. “Your dad’s okay,” he murmurs, but Phil hears the catch in his voice, too.

“I gotta make this right,” Barney continues after another couple seconds. “I owe that to the people I hurt. And I owe that to my kid, to come out with a clean slate and be the kinda dad he deserves.” He twists around, his gaze drifting over Phil and P.J. before landing squarely on his brother. “I should’ve learned all this a long time ago, but sometimes, you need a pretty big wake-up call to pull yourself together.”

Clint’s throat bobs, but he still smiles at his brother. P.J. reaches over to pat his uncle’s hand. “Ca, oh,” he says, his tone surprisingly comforting. “Oh-kay.” 

Clint huffs out a laugh and ruffles the baby’s hair. “Thanks, kiddo.” 

Barney snorts, but something slightly sad crawls across his face as he turns back to the judge. “I’m sorry,” he tells her, raising his hands. “That’s the long and short of it. I screwed up, and I’m _so_ f— So completely sorry.”

Judge Randall smiles softly. “Thank you, Mister Barton. You can sit down now.” 

The vinyl-covered chair squeaks as he lowers himself back down, and the judge studies him for a moment before removing her glasses. She flips through a few pages in her file, her lips rolling together. For a few tense moments, Phil swears no one in the courtroom breathes.

Eventually, though, the judge rests her arms on the bench. “In my first few months as a judge,” she says, “I spent a lot of my downtime watching court. I’d drive an hour to catch a restitution hearing, just to check that off my new-judge bucket list. Showed up to work early just to clear my desk and justify sitting in on a jury trial.” She shakes her head. “But more than any other kind of hearing, I constantly circled back to sentencings. Because other judges always seemed to just _know_ how to sentence a defendant, and me? My degree’s in chemistry. I like formulas.”

At counsel table, Barney leans forward, his weight on his elbows. Next to Phil, Clint nearly mirrors him, his hands almost over his face.

Judge Randall shrugs. “I never figured out the formula,” she admits, “but in all that time, I listened to a lot of defendant allocutions. Witnessed a lot of tears and hand-wringing, and with all levels of sincerity. And in all those hearings, I don’t think I ever _believed_ a defendant the way I believe you, Mister Barton.”

She glances down at Barney as he blinks, obviously surprised. He opens his mouth and just sort of gapes at her until Wade reaches over and digs fingers into his leg under the table. He scowls and physically shakes the attorney off.

The judge nearly chuckles. “Now, your attorney’s right,” she presses, holding up a hand. “You’re not a good candidate for probation, especially in light of your criminal history. But I’m officially finding, on the record, that you have a strong support system in place. Also, I find that you are an excellent candidate for rehabilitation and that although you committed the crimes of conviction, you acted under duress in a very difficult situation.”

Clint swallows audibly, and Phil swears that time slows to a crawl as the judge reaches for her glasses.

“For all those reasons,” she says, “I am rejecting the State’s recommended sentence of seven years and ordering that you serve sixty-six months in a state penitentiary. Between the time you’ve already served and good behavior, you’ll probably be out before your little boy starts first grade.” Barney clamps a hand over his mouth, his shoulders shaking slightly, and Judge Randall smiles. “Any objections before I finish announcing the sentence, Mister Wilson?”

Wade rockets to his feet. “Not in this lifetime, thanks.”

“Mister Murdock?”

And despite the judge rejecting his recommendation, Murdock smiles as he stands. “No, your honor.”

Sitting there in the gallery, Phil barely hears the rest of the standard sentencing orders. He feels speechless, almost breathless, and he only realizes that his husband’s working through the same combination of shock and awe when he grabs Phil’s hand. Phil glances over, drinking in the full force of Clint’s pursed lips and damp eyes before smiling.

“It’s over,” he murmurs, squeezing Clint’s hand. “We got the best-case scenario.”

Clint nods unevenly. “Until the hearing next week.”

“That’s a problem for future us,” Phil reminds him, and his husband snorts even as he smiles. Phil knocks their shoulders together. “He’ll serve maybe four-and-a-half years,” he says, quieter this time. “Out before you know it.”

“I know,” Clint replies, “I just didn’t—”

His voice catches, and he cuts himself off with a quick shake of his head. P.J. peers up at him, frowning. “Crah,” he says, thrusting the bag of crackers at Clint.

Clint blinks. “No, kid, I don’t want—”

“ _Crah_ ,” P.J. insists, and he holds onto his serious face until his uncle accepts the gift.

“And as always,” Judge Randall continues, checking something off in her case file, “you have the right to appeal my ruling today. If you can’t afford an appellate attorney, you will be provided with one. I’m sure Mister Wilson can tell you more.” She caps up her pen before raising her head. “I wish you the best of luck in the future, Mister Barton. Especially since I don’t think I’ll ever see you again.”

Barney quickly swipes under his eyes. “You won’t, your honor. I’m done going through this system. No offense.”

Wade muffles his surprised laugh by clamping both hands over his mouth, and at Phil’s side, Clint snorts and rolls his eyes. The judge, however, just grins. “That’s exactly what I like to hear,” she says. “Court’s adjourned. Go hug your family.”

Even before the court reporter asks them to rise, Clint’s out of his seat, and he barely leaves Barney enough time to face him before he grabs him in a bone-crushing hug. They grip one another like two survivors of a shipwreck fighting against the stormy seas, and as much as Phil knows they deserve a little privacy, he can’t look away from his husband pressing his face into his brother’s shoulder.

After all, Phil’s first memory of Barney Barton involves breaking up a brother-on-brother fistfight in the middle of an abandoned baseball field.

They’ve come a long way from two years ago.

“Ca!” P.J. insists, nearly thrashing his way out of Phil’s grip as he reaches for his uncle. Clint laughs wetly as he releases his brother to sweep the baby up into his arms. P.J. beams and snuggles in, halfway hiding his face against Clint’s shoulder, and Barney smiles as he tickles his son’s side.

Phil expects that to be the end of his part of the conversation, but when he tries to step away, Barney grips his arm. “Thanks,” he says, and the absolute sincerity in his expression almost steals Phil’s breath. “You kicked my ass when I needed it. Nobody I know’s ever done that, not even that one.”

He nods to Clint, who immediately scowls at him. “You listening to me is a pretty new development.”

“What can I say? I’m a lifelong learner.” Clint huffs and rolls his eyes, but Barney never breaks his eye contact with Phil. “But seriously. Thank you. For being, I don’t know, another big part of all this. And of the family.”

And despite a lifetime as part of the huge, rambunctious Coulson clan—with aunts and sisters and his legion of nieces and nephews—hearing Barney call him _family_ leaves Phil with a lump in the back of his throat. “Any time,” he replies, and Barney hesitates for exactly one second before dragging him in for a hug.

Later—after the court security officer leads Barney back to his holding cell, after Wade and Clint hug long enough that Phil worries they’ve both stopped breathing, after Will Simpson confirms no sightings of the stranger from the last hearing—Clint stops Phil in the middle of the parking lot. “I gotta thank you, too,” he says, his voice thick and low.

Phil shakes his head. “I’m your husband. Helping your family is part of—”

“Not that part,” Clint interrupts. He adjusts P.J. on his hip before crowding into Phil’s personal space, his free hand sliding under Phil’s jacket. “This whole time, you rode out this roller coaster with me. Never really complained about it, even when I really fucking wanted you to.” Phil snorts, but Clint pins him with a glance. “You really are like that poem from the wedding. The star to the wandering ship or whatever.”

Phil almost smiles. “Or whatever?”

Clint rolls his eyes. “You really suck at accepting compliments.”

“I—”

A tiny hand promptly smacks him in the mouth, and Phil blinks as his nephew scowls at him. “ _Shh_ ,” he instructs, still mostly a raspberry.

Phil bites back a laugh (mostly to avoid a second hand in the face), and Clint absolutely beams. “Kid’s got a point,” he says, and he squeezes Phil’s side before heading to the car.

 

==

 

“You’re staring,” Karen says, scooting into the corner of the couch. “Do you need to stare?”

P.J. cocks his head to one side, his little eyes narrowing, but he grins and claps his hands together when Karen tosses one of his blocks across the room. As he crawls after it, Foggy sighs. “You don’t play fetch with him. He’s not a dog.”

Snorting, Clint hands the other man his coffee. “You sure? ‘Cause if you drool like a dog and need help with bathing like a dog—”

“And need a leash,” Phil chimes in. Clint twists to glare at him, and he raises his eyebrows. “What? I’m old. No way I can chase after an actual toddler.”

“Says the guy who laps me when we jog.”

“Only because you insist on conserving your energy.” Clint blinks, and the tips of his ears flare red. Karen hides her grin behind her mug, but Phil just shrugs. “Your words exactly,” he reminds his husband.

“At the risk of sounding like Wade, do I need to fist bump you?” Foggy wonders. “Because I think weird athletic foreplay deserves some sort of acknowledgment.”

Clint shakes his head. “I hate Barney’s taste in lawyers,” he mutters, and immediately ducks back into the kitchen.

Foggy grins and winks at Phil, and across the living room, Phil smiles back. For the first time since inviting Karen and Foggy into the fold—or, more accurately, into Barney’s legal quagmire—he feels distinctly hopeful about the upcoming motion hearing. After all, he constantly reminds himself, the court can only dismiss the case if the defendant proves that Barney absolutely can’t win any of the claims in his petition. And given all the damning facts about Colonial Investments, Davis, and the general state of the trailer park—

“I’m really not a baby person,” Karen says suddenly, and Phil glances up from his copy of Barney’s file just as P.J. uses Karen’s slacks to drag himself to his feet. He teeters slightly, and she cringes. “Look, I don’t want to shake you off like somebody’s cat—”

“You’re not a cat person either?” Foggy asks. “It’s like I don’t even know you anymore.”

She shoots him a dirty look. “Just because you’re a sucker for every fluffy creature that wanders into the alley—”

Foggy raises a hand. “First, I rescued a single blind kitten from certain death. If that makes me a sucker, I will wear that badge with pride. And second,” he presses, pointing at P.J., “ _that_ is not a fluffy creature. That is a baby with a button nose who loves you.”

She shifts uncomfortably, and P.J. sways. “I never asked for this,” she says.

“Yeah, but P.J.’s like his dad: totally has a type.” Clint abandons his mug on the coffee table to sweep their nephew off his feet, and P.J. squeals as his feet swing around. They trail around the living room a couple times before Clint swings the baby onto his hip. “Strawberry blondes and guys with goatees.”

Foggy blinks. “Seriously?”

“And curly-haired second graders,” Phil adds. “As much as I hope that’s a phase.”

Karen cocks her head to the side. “Afraid he’ll chase after her in another ten years?”

“Afraid of him marrying into the Stark family,” Clint replies, “even if it’d help us retire in style.”

The two legal aid attorneys exchange confused glances, but Phil just rolls his eyes. “Ignoring the fact that your brother’d be the beneficiary of that marriage,” he says, “I thought we invited Foggy and Karen over to talk about Barney’s case.”

“We can multitask,” Foggy promises, plastering one hand over his heart. Clint snorts, grinning, leaves Karen and Phil to both shake their heads. They ride out the joke for a couple seconds before, finally, Foggy flips open his case file. “Like I said on the phone yesterday,” he says, suddenly all business, “the jail denied our request to transfer Barney over for his civil hearing. I think it’s probably part of the logistics of moving him to prison, but either way: since you guys will be there, he wants you to know the game plan.”

“And more importantly, their arguments.” Karen leans forward, her hands cupped around her coffee mug as she glances between Phil and Clint. “They’re saying that the facts of Barney’s case don’t prove that Colonial Investments actually harmed him.”

Clint scowls. “Then who the hell ran the extortion ring? Some _other_ shadow corporation?”

Foggy almost smiles at the disgust in Clint’s tone, but Karen shakes her head. “They’re placing the blame solely on Davis. And before you ask,” she stresses, raising a hand, “they disavow any knowledge of him. I think the motion calls him a ‘rogue actor.’”

“A rogue actor they’ve never heard of,” Phil grumbles. His stomach feels like a stone.

“Much as I look at these guys like the evil empire, they definitely cover their bases.” Phil sighs, and Foggy shrugs. “Our petition’s solid,” he says, his tone reassuring, “and Barney swears he’s told the gospel truth. We just need to argue our case and trust the judge.”

Clint stops bouncing P.J. on his knee to run fingers through his hair. “You think that’s enough?” he asks. “I mean, I get there’s not much else you can do, this early in the case, but the only thing scarier than trusting a judge is trusting a jury.”

“Aside from your crush on Judge Smithe,” Phil mutters into his coffee, and he grins a little when Clint wrinkles his nose.

But his moment of mirth recedes when Foggy flops back in his chair. “It’s a judgment call, honestly,” he admits, and Phil’s heart sinks. “Because of how little Barney knows about this Davis character, we had to refer to him as ‘an agent of Colonial Investments, possibly with the last name Davis.’ They’re kind of rubbing our noses in it.”

“Even though, technically, that’s all we need to allege.” Karen tucks hair behind her ear and glances at Clint. They watch one another for a moment before she says, “There’s a power imbalance here. Right now, Colonial Investments holds all the cards. And unless we keep the case open long enough to do some discovery, they’ll railroad us. Again.”

Clint nods unevenly, his gaze drifting down to their nephew. He spends a moment distracting P.J. from stripping out of his socks before turning back to the other two attorneys. “You telling us there’s something we can do, or just—” 

“We don’t want you to think it’s a slam dunk,” Foggy says quietly, and something Phil’s chest clenches as his husband’s throat bobs. “We’ve built the best case possible, and tomorrow, I do everything in my power to absolutely eviscerate whatever first-year associate they send to argue the motion.” Clint snorts, and the corner of Foggy’s mouth kicks up into a smile. “I just can’t make any promises.”

Phil studies the surface of his coffee for a second before asking, “Does Barney know?”

“About the motion? Yeah.” He nods, and Foggy shakes his head. “Honestly, I think that’s why he wanted us to come over here.”

Clint huffs and rolls his eyes. “Asshole’s gotta stop trying to look out for me,” he mutters.

Karen smiles. “From what I understand about older brothers,” she replies, “you might as well wait for hell to freeze over.”

 

==

 

“You planning to put him down any time soon?”

Clint jumps a little at question, his eyes wide and a little bleary until he catches Phil standing in the doorway. He yawns and stretches, his face just slack enough that Phil wonders if he startled his husband awake. After all, the house is quiet and cool in the wake of Karen and Foggy’s visit; aside from the dryer running in the laundry room and the low hum from the fridge, nothing really stirs. Even P.J. breathes evenly, his face smashed up against the shoulder of Clint’s t-shirt as he sleeps. Dreaming of mashed bananas, Phil guesses, especially when his fingers twitch into little fists.

Clint groggily scrubs a hand over his face and glances down at their nephew. “Am I allowed to say no?” he asks.

Something in his voice claws at Phil’s chest, but Phil still manages to shrug. “Never stopped you before,” he replies, and Clint snorts. He watches them for a moment—his husband’s big hand against P.J.’s tiny back, the way they slowly sway together—before adding, “And you can always say no. You know that.”

Clint smiles softly. “Then that’s my answer,” he says. “At least, for the next couple minutes.”

“Okay,” Phil murmurs, but his chest still feels tight for some reason, almost unfamiliar. He waits until Clint leans back into the couch cushions to flick off the overhead lights in both the kitchen and living room, plunging them into almost-darkness. Outside, their neighbor’s porch halogen glows orange-red against their closed blinds, unobtrusive but still enough to see by.

The dark feels private, Phil thinks as he navigates around a pile of blocks and a dump truck. Secretive and secure, like their own secluded corner of the world. 

“I feel like there’s something nerdy going on here,” Clint accuses, and Phil rolls his eyes as he joins his husband on the couch.

But Clint tips into him the moment he settles in next to him, his temple lulling against Phil’s shoulder. Phil kisses his hairline and the shell of his ear, breathing in his scent as he wraps an arm around him. He pulls both Barton boys in close to his chest. 

His Barton boys, he thinks, and closes his eyes.

They huddle together for what feels like a lifetime, through the dryer buzzer and the sound of a distant police siren, but eventually, Clint sighs. He twists to press his nose against Phil’s shirt, and Phil watches as his brow furrows. “I hate this,” he finally says.

Phil raises his eyebrows. “Which part? The waiting, or—”

“All of it.” Clint adjusts P.J. slightly, cuddling him against his chest before meeting Phil’s eyes. “I keep playing through Barney’s case in my head. Not just the hearing, but all the bullshit that comes after it: discovery, hunting down witnesses, putting together something that’ll stand up against Colonial’s lawyers.” He shakes his head. “And the more I think about it, the more I think Barney’s still gonna get screwed in the long run.”

He drops his gaze back down to the baby, and Phil strokes a hand along his upper arm. “We don’t know that,” he says. “Foggy and Karen are seasoned attorneys, and—”

“They’re up against corporate lawyers, Phil,” Clint retorts, and Phil rolls his lips together. “Foggy’s tried to catch these guys red-handed before. He knows how good they are when they’re _not_ in the courtroom. You add that in . . . ” He sighs quietly, his brow bunching. “Skye called this a shell game, right? Wheels within wheels?”

Phil nods. “Yeah.”

“Well, somewhere in that Spirograph nightmare’s a company with enough cash to fund all this urban development bullshit. Screwing over somebody like Barney’s a walk in the park compared to all that.”

The catch in his voice cuts right through the center of Phil’s chest, enough to almost steal his breath. Still, he leans in close enough to press his nose into Clint’s hair. “Barney will be okay,” he murmurs, instantly wishing he sounded more certain. “He’s survived worse than this.”

“Worse than being locked up _and_ homeless?” Clint demands. He pulls away just enough that Phil registers the exhaustion and resignation hiding in his bright eyes. “Messed-up history or not, he deserves better than that. Both of them do. But Barney—” He pauses, huffing out a shaky breath. “We’re the same, deep down, me and him. And he’s already saved my ass the one time. I wanna return the favor.”

Phil reaches up to card fingers through his hair. “I know.”

“Not really, no,” Clint replies, shaking his head. “But you’re trying. And that . . . ”

He trails off, the words sticking again, and he settles his head back onto Phil’s shoulder. Phil shifts them a little, letting Clint curl against his chest in the relative dark of their living room. He strokes fingers against Clint’s neck and shoulder, along his arm and back up again, until at least some of the tension finally uncoils.

Twenty-four hours from now, they’ll know the future of Barney and the mobile home park. 

The thought alone leaves Phil feeling seasick.

He waits until Clint sighs sleepily to remark, “You called the situation a Spirograph, you know.”

And despite everything, Clint snorts a laugh. “You’re so fucking lucky I married you,” he mumbles, and Phil smiles. 

 

==

 

“Tell me,” Judge Hammersmith says, removing his glasses, “should I be flattered or concerned that the entire district attorney’s office is joining us for a simple motions hearing?”

“Flattered, mostly.” Bruce actually groans aloud as Tony hops to his feet, his hands out in front of him like a white flag of surrender. “Although, for what it’s worth, we’re not the _whole_ office. Rogers got called up for federal jury duty, Odinson whisked his lady-love away for some sort of creepy prenatal exam, and Fury’s at—”

He glances across the aisle at Maria, who closes her eyes as she sighs. “A meeting for the new statewide sexual predator taskforce,” she supplies.

Tony snaps and jabs a finger at her. “That thing,” he finishes, grinning crookedly. “But aside from those three, we are definitely all present and accounted for.”

“Well, by all means, let the record reflect our capacity crowd,” the judge remarks dryly. Next to Phil, Clint rolls his lips together to keep from smiling. “Now, would the actual parties to this action like to enter their appearances? Or is Mister Stark handling that, too?”

“Definitely not, your honor,” Foggy says as he stands, and Tony rolls his eyes as Bruce physically drags him back into his seat. 

In a way, Judge Hammersmith’s courtroom always reminded Phil of a cathedral: high ceilings, gleaming old wood, fancy light fixtures, a beautiful mural of lady justice spanning one wall. According to local legend, the architect who designed the judicial complex had actually based the design off photographs of the county’s first courtroom, built hundreds of years ago. Even now, more than a decade into his career as an assistant district attorney, Phil still straightens his suit and tie before walking in, like a crooked knot might somehow sully this sacred space.

But today, he’d swung open the heavy wooden doors to discover a sea of familiar faces waiting for him.

He’d frozen in place, Clint colliding with his back, and for a long moment, they’d both let the din of fifteen-plus people talking and laughing just wash over them. Because in addition to Karen and Foggy, most of their coworkers had shown up for the occasion. The attorneys’d all worn their courtroom best, the trial assistants had all grabbed cardigans (or in Peggy’s case, shoved her feet back into her shoes), and the others—

“My skirt reaches my knees,” Skye’d volunteered when he’d blinked at her. “Best you can hope for, really.”

“Don’t you have a girlfriend to dress you?” Jasper’d asked from the row behind her.

“The day I wear one of her sweaters out of the house is a cold day in hell, buddy,” she’d returned, and the investigator had rolled his eyes.

Clint’d broken away from the doorway first, trotting over to greet Bruce and Natasha, but Phil’d lingered as he’d tried to overcome his surprise. Like at the restaurant a few weeks earlier, something about seeing his friends there as a unified front had nearly overwhelmed him, and he’d swallowed thickly before following his husband into the courtroom. He’d clapped Jasper on the shoulder and smiled at Pepper, but he’d ultimately found himself standing next to Maria.

“Shocked, pleased or both?” she’d asked, knocking their shoulders together.

“That you’re smiling a week before the Adabi case? Definitely shocked.” She’d wrinkled her nose, but he’d just spent another couple seconds scanning the crowd. “It’s a motion to dismiss, not the final trial,” he’d said after a beat. “Not sure you needed to call in the cavalry.”

“The cavalry’s home with a sick kid, actually,” Maria’d replied, shrugging. “She sends her good luck.”

Phil’d shot her a sideways glance. “Melinda hates that nickname.”

“Which is why I never use it when she’s within earshot.” He’d snorted, and she’d smiled softly. “And in case you forgot the discussion from the restaurant,” she’d added, “we’re here to share the load. Motions hearing all the way to a jury verdict, if that’s what it takes.”

His chest’d tightened a little, but he’d ignored it to squeeze her hand. “Thanks,” he’d murmured, and she’d knocked their shoulders together again.

She shoots him a tiny glance from across the aisle now, her eyebrows raised and her lips pursed, and Phil nods a little as he turns his attention back to the well of the courtroom. Foggy still stands at plaintiff’s table, his case file and paperwork spread out in front of him as Judge Hammersmith reads something up on the bench. And at defense table—

Phil draws in a breath and, very slowly, releases it.

The defense table is still empty, no sign of Colonial Investment’s legal team anywhere in sight.

“According to my records, the other party was properly notified of the hearing date,” the judge says, glancing over at Foggy. “In fact, they requested the expedited hearing.”

“Yes, your honor,” Foggy replies, nodding. “And that’s why we’d ask that you deny the motion for dismiss and start the ball rolling on discovery. Especially since they dragged us all here and didn’t even bother showing up.”

Judge Hammersmith smirks slightly. “I’m pretty sure most of our spectators are here voluntarily, Mister Nelson,” he replies. He glances back down at the paperwork in front of him, and for a second, Phil swears his heart stops. Clint reaches over, his fingers curling around Phil’s wrist as they (and probably the rest of the room) hold a collective breath. Finally, though, the judge sighs. “Given that the defendant has failed to appear, I really have no choice but—”

Phil’s heart crash-lands in his stomach the second he hears the familiar creak of the courtroom doors, but that disappointment pales in comparison to the way his body reacts to the words, “So sorry I’m late, your honor.” Because that voice—low, smooth, and just the wrong side of amused—haunts Phil’s dreams and nightmares, creeping up on him in memory ever since that afternoon in the Union County courthouse.

Clint’s fingers flex against his wrist, digging in just far enough to sting, and Phil instantly knows that his husband’s heard the same thing. “The _fuck_?” he mutters.

Phil shakes his head and, very slowly, turns toward the aisle. 

The man from the Union County courthouse smiles as he passes them, the sharpness of his gaze belying his pleasant expression. He wears a black suit today, just as expensive as the one from a few weeks earlier, and his crisp blue pocket square matches his tie. He swings his briefcase onto the defense table as he says, “I accidentally looked up the directions to the Suffolk County _courthouse_ , not the judicial complex. I only realized my mistake after I wandered into the museum.” He cocks his head slightly. “Is it meant to be a museum?”

“It’s mostly used for mock trial competitions and important speeches, these days,” Judge Hammersmith explains, and Phil grits his teeth against the pleasantness in his voice. “I take it you’re defense counsel for today’s hearing?”

The stranger nods as he flips open his briefcase. “I am, your honor. James Wesley on behalf of Colonial Investments and her sister companies. And I’m ready to argue our position despite—” 

“And just for the record, I’d object to letting Mister Wesley argue at all,” Foggy cuts in, rocketing to his feet. “Up until about three seconds ago, your honor, you were ready to rule. And since that the defense showed up late because he can’t program his GPS—”

Wesley blinks at the sharp edge to Foggy’s tone. “That’s uncalled for.”

“—I don’t think there’s any reason to change your mind on that ruling.” Judge Hammersmith raises an eyebrow, and Foggy swallows. “I mean, with all due respect, your honor.”

“And with all due respect to Mister Nelson,” Wesley responds, buttoning his jacket, “I’m only a few minute minutes late. And given the ridiculous allegations against my client—”

“Ridiculous?” Foggy echoes, cringing when Karen elbows him in the hip.

“—justice is better served by letting me deliver my argument.” He pauses just long enough for another tiny smile. “It will be brief, I assure you.”

“Not brief enough,” Tony mutters somewhere behind them.

Rolling his lips together, Judge Hammersmith leans back in his chair, his eyes sweeping over the two attorneys. The silence that blankets the room threatens to suffocate Phil, and he forces himself to keep breathing evenly even as Clint digs fingernails into the underside of his wrist. He feels the tension that runs through his husband—the tension they share, really—like an electrical current between them, a constant low hum that settles into his teeth.

Finally, the judge glances at Wesley. “Very brief, Mister Wesley,” he says, holding up a hand when Foggy starts to protest. “Don’t worry, Mister Nelson, you will get to share your position, too. But since the defendant bears the burden, he can start.”

“Thank you, sir,” Wesley says, stepping up to the podium. He adjusts his jacket and his glasses—a stalling tactic, Phil suspects—before finally lifting his head to face the judge. “In the interest of time, I won’t bother reading the petition aloud, or trying to refute every outrageous allegation against my client. Instead, I’d just like the court to consider Mister Barton’s claims and recognize them for what they are: the desperate last-ditch attempts by a convicted felon to avoid eviction and stay in his home.”

His voice twists on the last word, a perfect counterpart to his nearly sneering expression, and Clint suddenly grips Phil’s wrist hard enough that it hurts. Phil flinches, mostly involuntary, and Clint cringes slightly as he draws his hand away. He balls his fingers into a fist, his toe tapping impatiently, and Phil allows him a moment to fume before he touches his husband’s knee.

Clint grits his teeth, but his leg stills.

And at the podium, Wesley sighs. “Of course, I recognize that some of these allegations might, when taken out of context, support Mister Barton’s little flight of fancy. Take for example this allegation about— I believe the name is Davis?” He pauses just long enough to glance down at his legal pad. “Yes, Mister Davis. A supposed employee of Colonial Investments and the ringleader of a blackmail-based crime syndicate, according to the petition. But nothing in Mister Barton’s pleadings actively link this Mister Davis to my client. They suggest a tenuous relationship with Wiltshire Holdings, certainly, but to Colonial Investments?” He shakes his head. “At this point, I’d be surprised if Mister Davis even exists.”

The seasick feeling from the last few weeks rumbles through the pit of Phil’s stomach, and he draws in a breath as it threatens to drown him in some dangerous combination of worry and _anger_.

“In the end, your honor,” Wesley continues with a shrug, “we ask that you read back through the petition one last time. Because while Mister Barton _names_ a few claims, he fails to establish enough facts to support them.” Foggy drops his pen to push his chair back, but Wesley raises a hand. “I’m sorry,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. “That was unfair. Baseless accusations against my employer do that to me.” He waits until Foggy sinks back into his chair to glance back to the judge. “My point is simply this, your honor: these allegations are not rooted in reality, and they’re insufficient to support a lawsuit. That’s all.”

Judge Hammersmith nods as Wesley returns to the defense table. “Mister Nelson, I assume you still want to respond?”

“Oh, absolutely, your honor,” Foggy replies. He picks up his legal pad and pen before he stands, pausing just long enough to flash Phil and Clint a half-second glance before walking up to the podium. Phil tries to smile reassuringly, but his face feels like someone chiseled it out of stone. 

Next to him, Clint squares his shoulders, almost as though he expects a physical blow.

“Like Mister Wesley,” Foggy says as he arranges his legal pad on the podium, “I don’t want to waste your time. And I definitely don’t want to stand up here and spend my whole argument talking about how we don’t need to win the case in this hearing. You’re the judge. You know that the rules of civil procedure say that, right now, you need to accept our factual claims as true. Instead, what I want to talk about is how Mister Wesley’s absolutely right.”

Phil jerks a little, the shock nearly choking him. At his side, Clint scoots to the very edge of the seat. His leg starts jumping again, and this time, not even Phil’s touch soothes away the nervous tic.

Not, of course, that Phil’s trying to calm his husband.

No, right now, he’s struggling to breathe.

“Now, let me be clear,” Foggy continues, raising his hands, “Mister Wesley’s not right about _everything_. He’s definitely not right about the court needing to dismiss the case. But the truth is, yeah, Barney Barton is a convicted felon. He _is_ desperate to stay in his home. And his claims, the ones in the petition? They’re ridiculous. They’re ludicrous, nutty, beyond the pale. But you know what else? They’re true.” He pauses for a second before gesturing over at defense table. “Let the defendant dress it up however they want, but at the end of the day, we’ve stated enough facts to support our claims and keep the lawsuit alive. Or, at the very least, to allow enough discovery that we _can_ link all our allegations together. Hold them accountable for the lives they’ve ruined, Barney’s included.”

The coil of tension—of fear, really—that lives in Phil’s stomach starts to unknot just as Wesley rises from his chair. “Your honor,” he says tightly, “this isn’t a fishing expedition. It’s a lawsuit. To open up discovery on these admittedly ridiculous allegations—”

“Call them all the names you want,” Foggy spits, twisting to glare at Wesley, “but our facts are definitely enough to support our claim. And if you really think that your client isn’t in bed with all the so-called rogue actors from Wiltshire Holdings, you—”

“What I think,” Wesley interrupts haughtily, “is that you’re tilting at windmills. Your defensiveness only—”

“That’s enough, gentlemen,” Judge Hammersmith breaks in, raising both hands. The two attorneys immediately snap their jaws shut, and Foggy ducks his head to stare at the floor. “As much as I appreciate your passion, the last thing I need in this courtroom is a fistfight.” Wesley huffs and smoothes his hands over his jacket as he reluctantly sinks back into his chair. “Now, Mister Nelson. Any further comments?”

Foggy shakes his head. “No, your honor.”

“Very well, then.” The judge waits until Foggy sits back down at counsel table before he leans back in his chair. He scratches his temple for a moment, his lips rolling together, and without really thinking about it, Phil reaches over to touch Clint’s leg. He means it to be a brief reassurance, just a warm, familiar brush of his knuckles, but Clint immediately reaches down to grip Phil’s hand. He grips it tightly before threading their fingers together, and Phil—

Phil swallows around the thick feeling in the back of his throat even as he feels himself brace for impact, the same as his husband.

Finally, Judge Hammersmith sighs. “Cases like this one always leave me a little perplexed,” he says, scrubbing a hand over his cheek. “On the one hand, Mister Barton raises a number of frankly unbelievable allegations against the defendant, the kind that read like something out of a John Grisham novel. On the other hand, he’s raising them against a corporate defendant with the time and money to obfuscate the truth both inside and outside of the courtroom.” He shakes his head. “I feel like I’m facing down Schrödinger’s lawsuit, with no clear answer in sight.”

Clint leans forward, his elbows on his thighs as he claps a hand over his mouth. Every breath trembles, as shaky and uncertain as the hammering of Phil’s own heartbeat. 

The judge spends a few more seconds scanning the courtroom—studying not just Karen and Foggy, but also Wesley and the crowd in the gallery—before he finally draws in a breath. “Although I am charged with accepting Mister Barton’s well-pleaded facts as true,” he says, every word slow and very deliberate, “I can’t in good conscience accept _these_ facts. As Mister Wesley pointed out, the connection between the bad actors at the mobile home community and his client are too tenuous to sustain a lawsuit. For that reason, I’m forced to dismiss the case until a time when Mister Barton can connect all the pieces together.” 

Phil knows, at least intellectually, that Judge Hammersmith keeps talking after he dismisses the case, droning on about the right to appeal and preparing a journal entry, but the sound the blood rushing in Phil’s ears drowns it all out. He rubs a hand over his face, trying desperately to stave off the shock and horror that flashes through him—and then, to fight against the anger that immediately follows. By the time the court reporter asks them to rise, he feels weak-kneed and hopeless, and he only staggers to his feet when the person behind him pokes him in the shoulder.

“I can’t believe—” he starts to say, but the words dry up when he twists to glance at Clint.

Because, of course, Clint’s already gone.

 

==

 

“I’m guessing you probably don’t want to talk.”

Clint snorts and twists away, his footfalls crunching on the tar paper as he walks off. The wind on the roof ruffles his tie and jacket, never mind his hair, but he ignores it to pace all the way to the edge and back again. He looks older in the halfhearted light of a grey fall morning, exhausted and worn down from the last few months, and Phil’s chest hurts as he carefully closes the heavy roof-access door behind him.

He allows Clint a few tight circles before he says, “Clint—”

“I don’t fucking get it,” Clint says, a whisper almost lost to the noise around them. He stops next to the cement barrier that rims the roof and digs a hand into his hair. “We already lost everything, you know? Our folks. Trick, not that he counted for much. Barney traded in any chance of having a real life when he helped save my ass, and I almost cut him out ‘cause of it. And now, after _all_ that—” He swallows audibly as he shakes his head. “We still lose. We always fucking lose.”

He plants his hands on the barrier, his head hanging down like it carries the weight of the world, and despite the ache spreading through the depths of Phil’s belly, he walks up and wraps an arm around his husband. Clint trembles under his touch, his whole body quaking, and even without looking, Phil knows he’s fighting back tears.

Phil’s almost there, too.

Later, when there’s not a courtroom full of their worried friends waiting for them, he’ll give into that urge, screaming and shaking apart in a way he can’t right now. Maybe Clint’ll join him, and they’ll yell into that abyss together.

For right now, he splays his hand against his husband’s side. “It’s not over,” he says, ignoring the sticky feeling in the back of his throat. “We’ll do more research, refile the case, and—” 

“It won’t matter,” Clint cuts him off. His fingers claw against the cement. “We blew our only chance, and now, we’ve gotta live with it.”

They stand together for a long time, the crisp autumn wind whipping around them, before Phil finally sighs. He presses a kiss to Clint’s shoulder as he steps back, his hands falling into his pockets. He roots around in them—first in his suit coat, then in his slacks—until he finds his cell phone.

Clint frowns at him, his brow bunching. “What are you doing?” he asks. His voice sounds gravely enough that it almost breaks Phil’s heart.

Phil shrugs. “Texting Kate to babysit so we can go get blackout drunk with our friends.”

His husband snorts and rolls his eyes. “You think drinking myself stupid’s gonna fix this?” he asks.

“No, but I think we’ve spent the better part of four months obsessing about your brother and ignoring almost every other part of our lives.” He finishes typing out the text before glancing over at Clint’s slightly confused frown. “Tomorrow, we’ll undoubtedly enter phase two of worrying ourselves sick about him and P.J. But tonight—”

The rollercoaster emotions of the last few months rise up to meet him like the tide on a rocky shore, and he abandons his phone on the barrier to close the distance between them. To slough off the fear, the anger, the worry, the _helplessness_ of the latest chapter of their lives by spreading his hands on Clint’s sides and leeching his familiar heat. Clint watches him for a moment, his lips pursed before he smiles and returns the favor, and Phil only really exhales when he feels Clint’s body finally uncoil.

“We lost today,” Phil says quietly, “but deciding if we’re done fighting? We can decide that in the morning.”

Clint raises an eyebrow. “After a lot of drinking?”

“After a night where it’s just us,” Phil corrects, shaking his head. “No forces of evil, no missing brothers, no toddlers. Just us.”

And although Phil’s not a religious man, he swears there’s something heavenly trapped in his husband’s smile. “Well, you _are_ the boss,” he replies.

“Good answer, counselor,” Phil returns, and draws Clint in for a half-desperate hug.

 

==

 

“What about killing him?” Lance Hunter asks.

Clint chokes on his beer, and despite the music blaring from the (probably ancient) jukebox over by the pool tables, the table falls deathly silent. Even Isabelle Hartley, the undisputed queen of the poker face, raises an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“The lawyer. The one who screwed you blokes over. It’s like you don’t even listen to yourselves when you talk.” Hunter swings his feet off an empty chair to lean his elbows on the table. “Common piece of wisdom’s that you kill all the lawyers.”

“First,” Hartley corrects. He scowls at her, and she shrugs. “The line’s ‘first, we kill all the lawyers.’ From _Henry VI._ ”

Hunter rolls his eyes. “You marry a bloody English teacher, and suddenly—”

“Did you have a point?” Phil asks as he reaches for his glass. “Besides threatening murder, I mean.”

Hartley smirks slightly, and Hunter huffs. “My point,” he presses, his gaze drifting over to Clint, “is that murder’s always an option when someone rakes you over the coals.”

“And before you’re tempted,” Hartley interjects, “he’s joking.”

“You just keep telling yourself that, love,” he replies lightly, and Clint immediately bursts out laughing.

The laugh is warm and bright, the kind that slugs Phil in the stomach before tingling all the way down to his toes, and even with that morning’s hearing still hanging over his head, Phil can’t help his smile. Oh, he knows that his husband’s tipsy and careening toward properly drunk, but that laugh—

A few centuries ago, Clint’s laugh would’ve launched a thousand ships. Now, it just catapults Phil’s heart into his throat because he’s missed that sound. More than that, he’s missed the easy crinkle of Clint’s crow’s feet, the soft flush of his cheeks as he throws back his head, the way his shoulders shake. He’s missed this sort of joy, the kind that only comes from gathering all their friends in the same room to suffer through bad jokes and worse beer.

The feeling crashes over him like a wave, and he hides his sappy smile behind his whiskey glass.

“I like you,” Clint decides, clumsily clapping Hunter on the shoulder. “Pretty sure I’d hate you sober, but right now? I really like you. Enough to buy you a beer, maybe.”

Hunter shoots his boss a sharp grin. “See?” he asks. “Popular with everyone.”

Hartley snorts. “Don’t flatter yourself,” she mutters, swigging her beer.

Ignoring their banter, Clint pushes his chair back. “C’mon,” he says, nodding to Hunter. “Let’s go beat your big, disapproving friend at darts.”

“Now?” Hunter replies, and he blinks when Clint nods. “No offense, mate, but Mack could wipe the floor with you stone-cold sober, never mind—”

“You’d be surprised,” Phil interrupts. Hunter narrows his eyes at him, and he shrugs. “You don’t have to believe it before you see it, but trust me: you have nothing to worry about in the dart department.”

Clint beams at him, his whole face almost twinkling, and Phil draws in an involuntary little breath as his husband swoops in to kiss him. And not in some chaste, mixed-company way, either; he cups the back of Phil’s head and plunders his mouth until they’re both just the right side of breathless. When they finally break apart, Phil’s heart hammering in his throat, Clint winks at him. “More where that came from,” he promises, his voice husky.

Hunter scowls. “I’m going to throw up in my mouth.”

Clint smirks. “Just ‘cause you’re not getting any . . . ” he intones, and Hunter’s sputtering is drowned out by Hartley’s delighted cackle.

Phil lingers at the table for a few more minutes, halfheartedly listening to one of Hartley’s work rants while mostly watching his husband across the room. Thanks to the beer (and, more likely, the distraction of new friends), Clint grins and jokes around, a reminder of the man Phil fell in love with more than two years earlier. Sooner or later, Phil suspects they’ll return to those versions of themselves—intense workaholics, sure, but with a better sense of humor and a slightly less fatalistic worldview. He likes catching a glimpse of that future now, instead of waiting impatiently for it.

Win or lose, he thinks maybe they needed closure, some sort of final punctuation mark to a long, complicated story.

He excuses himself when he finishes his whiskey, wandering back across the bar. He’s not entirely sure why Clint picked The Hub as their drinking venue—he blames Jasper and Rhodey, honestly—but the beer is cheap and the college kids in the back corner pick relatively decent classic rock songs every time the jukebox stops. Or, Phil realizes as he orders a water, Tony keeps feeding the college kids dollar bills and suggestions, much to his husband’s dismay.

“Think he’ll drive them into bankruptcy?” a familiar voice asks, and Phil glances over just as Melinda sidles up to the bar. When he raises an eyebrow, she nods over to the pool tables. “Stark’s new fan club. Think they’ll con him out of his last dime?”

“Since I doubt he knows the PIN for his checking account, they’re probably safe.” She snorts, almost smiling, and he waits for her to order before saying, “I thought you were home with a sick kid.”

“I was,” she replies with a shrug. “But my husband also owes me. Big time.”

The bartender slides them their glasses, and Phil trails Melinda back to her table. Over at the dartboards, Hunter cheers and thumps Clint between the shoulder blades, and the drunken dart victor nearly spills his beer. Phil watches them for a moment, smiling to himself.

At least, until Maria groans. “I swear, you’re disgusting when you’re getting along,” she complains, and Phil whips around to discover her and Pepper already at Melinda’s table. “It’s like watching teenagers make eyes at each other across the auditorium.”

Pepper hides her smirk behind her wine glass. “It’s sweet.”

“And,” Melinda says, dropping into her seat, “you’re just as bad when you think nobody’s watching.”

“Uh, no,” Maria returns, and she thumps her glass down like a gavel when the other women roll their eyes at her. “I am a totally rational adult with no need for mushy heart-eyes. My boyfriend—” 

“Fiancé,” Pepper corrects.

Maria narrows her eyes. “My significant other,” she amends sharply, “is the sap.”

Melinda shrugs. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Phil almost snorts his water, and next to him, Pepper winks as she reaches for the basket of onion rings. But Maria sniffs out their barely contained laughter like a bloodhound, and she shoots them all a withering look while scratching her chin with her middle finger. Melinda, for her part, rolls her eyes. “Shouldn’t you be home panicking?” she asks, turning to Phil.

He blinks. “About?”

“Your next move against the evil corporate overlords,” Maria supplies. He huffs out a breath, and she raises a hand. “I’m not saying you _should_ panic. I’m mostly just surprised you’re taking a night off before gearing up for the big appeal.”

“There won’t be an appeal.” All three women frown, leaving Phil to cast his eyes down at his glass. He rocks it back and forth before saying, “Foggy talked to Barney after the hearing. All things considered, he’d rather just try again once we have more information. An appeal’d only delay that.”

“If that day ever comes.” Pepper shoots Melinda a warning glance, but she ignores it to stare Phil down. “You might never fill in the blanks.”

He nods. “I know.”

Pepper leans her arms on the table. “And how do you feel about that?”

He chews on the question for a moment, his thumb sliding along the lip of his glass. He resolutely refuses to glance over at the dartboards—or to again fall victim to Clint’s infectious laughter. Instead, he weathers the weight of his friends’ stares before answering, “Okay, really.”

Maria nearly chokes on her rum-free Diet Coke. “Seriously?” she demands, gaping at him. “Because the Phil I’m used to would be on a crusade for justice right about now, not—”

“That Phil’s at least five years younger than I am,” he cuts her off, and she rolls her lips together. “He isn’t somebody’s husband, and he’s definitely not paying a babysitter to look after his nephew, who he’ll be raising for the next couple years. He’s . . . ” He pauses, and this time, his gaze drifts back over to the other side of the bar. “The old Phil’s a lot more selfish than I am,” he admits, watching as Clint lines up a shot. “Who knows? Maybe I’ve been selfish this whole time. Too worried about unveiling hidden enemies and motives—about doing the right thing—to really focus on what mattered.” He shakes his head. “I’m not messing up my life that way anymore. Not after the last two summers.”

Pepper reaches over to touch his wrist, and he smiles a little at the warm fondness that spreads easily across her expression. She squeezes, smiling back. “I’m proud of you,” she says quietly.

“I’m not,” Melinda responds. Pepper twists to glare at her, but she just crosses her arms. “You’re dealing in false dichotomies, Phil. A lot of times, the right thing _is_ what matters. They’re not mutually exclusive.”

“They are when doing one threatens the other,” Phil reminds her, and from the way her expression softens, he knows without a doubt she’s remembering Nathaniel Essex and the Ramsey murders. “We’ve had enough upheaval,” he says. “Enough sleepless nights, enough silences that drag on until we both itch. It’s time for things to finally go back to normal.”

Pepper’s mouth quirks into a tiny smile. “Around here, ‘normal’ is a relative term,” she points out.

He grins. “I’ll take what I can get.”

He spends a good half-hour at their table, stealing their onion rings and laughing at tales of Max’s latest baby-sized misadventures until Hunter hollers at him to come keep score for the last of the alcohol-soaked dart games. He orders another water, sipping it as the teams banter and, occasionally, half-hug over a good shot.

And sometimes, when Mack and Idaho (both nicknames, Hunter promises) discuss strategy or line up their shots, Clint crowds up behind Phil, his arms around Phil’s waist and his nose against the back of Phil’s neck. And each time, as they sway together to Tony’s latest jukebox selection, Phil thinks of those early, heady days with Clint and smiles.

Better still, he thinks of home, and laces his fingers through his husband’s.

Eventually, though, Clint’s shots move from slightly sloppy to downright erratic. “Awww, dart, no,” he mumbles as his last shot pings off the chalkboard two feet away. “You went the wrong way.”

He sticks out his lower lip in a perfect pout, and Phil bites back a laugh. “I think that’s our cue,” he says, and he hands Clint’s last dart off to Hunter.

Despite his stumbling steps and slightly slurred speech, Clint still graciously allows Phil to guide him around the bar to say goodbye to everyone, dazzling their friends with his warm (if hazy) smile and his needy bear hugs. 

When they discover Natasha at the bar, Clint breaks away from Phil to literally sweep her off her feet, his face almost in her hair. “You’re my favorite,” he says as they untangle. “You played Russian opera the one time, and I kinda hated that, but you’re still my favorite.”

“And you,” she replies, “are _incredibly_ drunk.”

His whole face crumples as he scowls at her. “Nuh-uh,” he insists, swaying as he crosses his arms. “I’m fine. I’m great at drinking. And at not being drinked.”

Natasha smirks and cocks an eyebrow at Phil. “Call me if you need aspirin in the morning,” she offers.

“Oh, I think we’ll need more than that,” Phil admits, and she salutes him with her glass as he gently steers Clint toward the next group.

By the time they step out into the cold fall evening, Clint’s practically draped across Phil’s shoulders, his face sometimes mashing against Phil’s shirt as they trudge to their car. “You didn’t drink enough,” he complains, his voice low and a little hazy. “You’re gonna be all serious when we get home, and I don’t wanna be serious.”

Phil chuckles, his fingers still tangled in one of Clint’s belt loops. “And if I promise I’ll be nothing but fun?” 

Clint tilts his head, almost studying Phil sideways. “We gonna wear pants for the fun?” he questions.

“Honestly, I’m surprised you’re still wearing pants right now,” Phil replies, and he grins when Clint’s laughter echoes into the dark.

 

==

 

“Hey, Phil?”

The sound of laughter and rustling branches carries through the autumn afternoon almost as clearly as Clint’s voice, and for a moment, Phil drinks it all in. After all, the sun’s glimmering brightly through the red and orange leaves above his favorite park bench, children are chasing one another through the grass and over the playground equipment, and P.J.—

“Hey, none of that,” Clint scolds, batting lightly at P.J.’s hand. P.J. scowls, wriggling slightly in his park swing, but he also drops the pinecone instead of shoving it in his mouth. When his uncle raises his eyebrows, he opens his palm, silent proof of compliance.

Clint grins and tickles the back of his leg. “Good,” he says, and the baby howls with laughter when Clint stops the swing and ducks under it, instead of walking around.

Sitting on a nearby bench, his book open in his lap and P.J.’s stroller at his side, Phil can almost forget about the nightmare of the last few months, a pendulum that swung between terror and hope until both he and Clint felt hypnotized by it. And when he closes his eyes, just for a moment, he can pretend they exist in a wholly different world, one without plea bargains, imprisoned brothers, abandoned trailer parks, and shady corporate dealings. In that world, he and his husband live with a baby they adore, and their lives feel normal.

But of course, he thinks as he closes his book, they don’t live in that world. Instead, they live in a place where the Colier Park Mobile Home Community is finally empty and a notice of demolition hangs on a sign Phil first saw two years ago. They live in a house with a basement containing all of Barney’s earthly possessions, three hours from Barney’s new home in a medium-security prison. They work in a home office where they both pretend to ignore the file folders from Barney’s civil case, down the hall from a guest room they’re finally repainting. And right now, they play in a park down the street, mostly because Clint’s sick of fighting with the assembly instructions for P.J.’s new crib.

Tomorrow, Kurt Wagner will stop by for the final walk-through before they sign P.J.’s guardianship papers. And next weekend, after all the paperwork is signed, they’ll celebrate Teddy’s birthday at the Stark house with a quiet splash of champagne, just for them.

And just like in that other world, the perfect one, Phil and his husband will end their day by tucking in a baby they adore.

The wood chips crunch under his feet as he walks up to the swing, and P.J. grins at him when he pauses to ruffle the baby’s messy hair. In the sun, the auburn brightens up almost to red, and Phil imagines Clint as a round-faced, beaming toddler. His heart still warms, every time.

“You wanted something?” he asks as he reaches Clint’s side, and he blinks a little when his husband slings an arm around his waist. He leans in close, smelling of coffee and the cool breeze. But even though he surprises Phil again by kissing him soft and slow, Phil sort of forgives him.

He definitely tangles his fingers in Clint’s hair as he melts into the kiss.

“Da!” P.J. complains a few seconds later, and they break apart to discover that he’s now swaying more than swinging. Clint laughs almost self-consciously as starts pushing again, and soon, P.J.’s back to flapping his arms like a bird. “Fla,” he tells no one in particular, a side-effect of the flying games he plays with Clint (and sometimes, Phil suspects, with Kate). “Fla bahb.”

“Like a bird, yeah,” Clint agrees, pushing him a little higher.

Phil waits until P.J.’s fully placated, if still flapping his arms, to raise an eyebrow at Clint. “Do I need to ask what just happened?” he wonders.

Clint shrugs. “Just thanking you,” he replies, and tugs Phil a little closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First and foremost: **thank you** for waiting for this chapter. It fought me the whole way through, but I am very happy with the end result. I know you waited two weeks longer than normal, and I'm sorry for that. I hope the wait was worth it.
> 
> Second: the next and final chapter of Sua Sponte will be posted next Sunday. It is written and beta-read, so there will be no delay.
> 
> Third: next Sunday, I will also have a lot more information about the next couple months of the MPU. I'm still working out the details, but I think I'm going to take a bit of a hiatus from the bigger stories and work on some one-shots and some bonus content. I'm not totally sure what this'll look like yet, but look forward to some new material, the first installment in a three-story set, and some hand-curated playlists--just to name a few items. There will be a big tumblr post with all the information next weekend, and I'll link it with Chapter 16. (I think I'm not very good at hiatuses, given how much I have planned.)
> 
> Thank you again, and I'll "see" you next week!


	16. Baby Steps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, our heroes move forward. Or rather, P.J. moves forward. On his own steam. But everyone else moves forward, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, monumental thanks to my beta-readers, Jen and saranoh. They saw me through this, the roughest of the MPU stories to write. And they never once let me down. You gals keep this universe chugging along, and I am grateful.
> 
> And equally as always, thank you to everyone who stuck with me through the last few months. I feel a little like Phil in the roller coaster of the last couple months, but I feel like things are finally settling. And I am lucky that you all didn't give up on me. Thank you.

“Come on, P.J.! You can do it!”

Amy claps along with her cheer, a tiny pom-pom girl in the making, and P.J. cocks his head slightly as he sticks his fingers in his mouth. He bounces almost impatiently but without loosening his death grip on the Stark family coffee table. All around him, four adults and two children study his every move in hopes that he might actually walk.

He’s tried dozens of times, both at home and tonight. But no matter how hard he tries, he always ends up in the same place: sitting on the floor and scowling at whatever piece of furniture betrayed him this time.

He flicks his gaze over to Clint, his tiny eyes narrowing, but his favorite uncle just raises his hands. “Don’t look at me,” he says from his spot in a nearby chair. “I’m not in charge. Your new best buddy’s running the show.”

He jerks a thumb over at Amy, and P.J. tilts his head the other way. When Amy grins and waves, he wriggles excitedly.

Dot heaves a sigh. “This is boring,” she decides, abandoning Amy’s half-finished braid to drape herself over the arm of the couch. “He’s too little. He won’t ever walk. He’ll just fall down a hundred more times, and we’ll never get to go play Chutes and Ladders like you said.”

“If he’s too little to walk, you’re too old to whine,” Steve comments with a smile, and Dot immediately scowls at him. When he reaches over to ruffle her hair, she ducks away to sulk. “And, for the record, you started walking about the same time. You just cried more when you fell.”

She whips her head around to blink at him. “I did not.”

“Oh, you definitely did,” Bucky assures her. “Mostly because your dad acted like you might shatter every time your butt hit the carpet, but . . . ” Steve stops picking at the ends of his cake to elbow his husband, and Bucky grins. “Besides, half the reason people bring babies to parties is to show off all the cute things they do. Better adjust to it if you want a baby brother.”

“Or sister,” Steve amends, the tips of his ears flaring bright red. Bucky shrugs, but Phil still catches the way his eyes twinkle when he smiles—and, more importantly, the way he leans into Steve as he steals that last bite of cake. 

All proof of a decision no one else in the room knows about, Phil suspects, and he smiles to himself as he sips his coffee.

In a lot of ways, this Saturday night at Tony and Bruce’s feels a lot like any other—if, of course, you ignore the massive _HAPPY BIRTHDAY TEDDY!_ banner hanging over the back door and the decimated birthday cake sitting out on the kitchen counter. The birthday festivities themselves had ended about an hour earlier, when the guest of honor crowded his posse (and younger foster brother) out the front door for a late movie.

“Don’t wait up,” Kate’d teased as she’d tugged on her jacket. “On second thought, I don’t care if you wait up. Just don’t call me to babysit. I never want to witness drunk Barton again as long as I live.”

Clint’d crossed his arms, clearly fighting back a grin. “My rendition of ‘Danny Boy’ was perfect.”

“My bleeding ears kind of disagree with you, there,” she’d retorted, and they’d play-shoved one another before she’d ducked out the door.

Still, Clint’d smiled as her purple car careened out of the circle drive and sped down the street, the warmth in his eyes so genuine that Phil’d wanted to bottle and mass produce it to comfort him through their next rough patch. But in truth, Clint’s graced Phil with that smile a lot in the last few weeks, tying his stomach into knots every time.

Like when he’d sat next to Phil in Judge Smithe’s courtroom and officially signed P.J.’s guardianship papers, his hand steady while Phil’s trembled slightly.

Or like when they’d Skyped with Phil’s sisters, a massive four-way call that P.J. had derailed with incessant giggles and sloppily blown kisses.

Or, maybe most importantly, when they’d walked into the prison visiting room earlier that same day and spotted Barney, who’d grinned at the prospect of his first monthly visit with his son.

“And there’s a zoo,” Barney’d said at one point, glancing across the table. They’d sat under a window, the morning sun bringing out the red in his hair. P.J.’d grunted at him, and he’d rearranged his blocks before adding, “Couple parks. A public pool for the summer. And I think there might be a science center kinda place, but I’m not sure. Guys were maybe yanking my chain about that one.”

Phil’d raised an eyebrow, but Clint’d just rolled his lips together. They’d sat in relative silence for a couple seconds before Clint’d asked, “There a reason we need a zoo?”

Barney’d shrugged, his gaze drifting down to his son’s teetering block tower. Distracted by the sudden quiet, P.J.’d craned his head up and frowned. “Blah?” he’d asked, holding up a block.

His father’d snorted. “Yeah, sure.” He’d kissed P.J.’s tiny fingers before finally looking back across the table. “You need a zoo ‘cause you gotta do more than come here. ‘Cause right now, he’s fine, but in another year?” He’d shaken his head. “No kid needs to spend his Saturdays seeing this shit show.”

He’d gestured generally to the room around them—the cinderblock walls, the metal tables, and the other inmates meeting with their friends and family—before threading his fingers through P.J.’s hair. But while Phil’d studied his lost expression, Clint’d just rolled his eyes. “We really gotta have a pity party on the first fucking week?” he’d grumbled, and reached across the table to grab his brother’s wrist. Barney’d jerked his head up, surprised, but Clint’d pinned him with a gaze. “No matter how bad you want it some other way,” he’d said, “we’re here for you. We don’t need anything else. No distractions, no zoos. We just need to see you.”

“Oooh!” P.J.’d agreed, clapping two blocks together.

And against all odds—like a miracle, really—the Barton brothers had both burst out laughing.

Clint laughs again now, watching as P.J. releases the table only to fall right back onto his butt. He bounces enough when he lands that his eyes widen, but the second he realizes his audience’s laughing, he beams. “Gen!” he declares as he hauls himself back up.

Phil snorts. “I need at least three more cups of coffee if this is how we’re spending our night,” he teases, but his nephew beams at him when he winks.

He wanders into the kitchen slowly, though, pausing to card his fingers through Clint’s messy hair and flick the end of Dot’s ponytail (which somehow earns Bucky the accusatory glare). He dodges Rhodey and Bruce’s very serious discussion on the Syrian civil war, and he only listens to about ten seconds of Natasha, Pepper, and Carol Danvers’s plan for world domination before he decides he’s better off _not_ knowing. When he finally reaches the kitchen, he discovers Darcy and Peggy whispering in front of the coffee maker.

He grins. “I—”

Darcy’s hand snaps up into the space between them. “Not today, member of the suspect class,” she says, and promptly whisks Peggy away.

Phil frowns at their backs. “I don’t—”

“Don’t be offended, they’re just discussing the usual: unrequited love, valar morghulis, the subtle but undeniable hotness of a U.S. Marshal in a dark suit.” Phil’s not surprised, exactly, to discover Tony sitting alone at the breakfast nook with a glass in his hand. In fact, after an evening of entertaining teenagers, elementary school girls, and his coworkers, the man probably deserves ten minutes of silence. However, what _does_ surprise Phil is—

“Are you stroking your cat like a supervillain?” he asks.

Tony huffs as Jarvis trills and rolls over on the table, displaying his fluffy belly. “Stroking? Absolutely. But for your information, plenty of respectable non-villains stroke cats on a regular basis. Data, for instance.”

Phil raises an eyebrow. “From _Star Trek_?”

“No, from the _best_ of the five incarnations of _Star Trek_. And,” Tony adds, jabbing a finger in Phil’s direction, “I do not count the reboot as one of the incarnations because I refuse to watch any film featuring Bananagram Cucumbersnatch.”

Phil bites back a smile. “According to Bruce, you cried at the trailer for _The Imitation Game_.”

“And according to your knitting circle, you’re a wizard with a skein of finger weight, so . . . ” Phil rolls his eyes, but as he reaches for the coffee pot, Tony blurts, “Jessica Fletcher.”

He blinks. “What?”

Tony shrugs. “You needed another cat owner. I submit that Jessica Fletcher, amateur detective and possible serial killer, is a non-villainous cat person.”

“Well, ignoring that you just called her a serial killer, I’m not sure I remember a cat in _Murder, She Wrote_.”

“And the fact that you just corrected me on that is about ten times sadder than your prowess with the knitting needles, Spinster Coulson.” Phil stares at him for a moment before shaking his head, and Tony grins. “More to the point,” he presses, “Jarvis has sort of a ‘thing’ for anything we leave sitting out on the counter. I’m keeping his fur out of their frosting.”

Phil smirks. “And the Doctor Claw impression’s just a bonus?” he asks.

“Go go gadget furball,” Tony replies, toasting Phil with his glass.

Phil actually chuckles at his delivery (and, maybe more importantly, at the way he scratches Jarvis’s belly as he finishes the sentence), but his smile fades as he pours his coffee. When he glances back over at Tony, he realizes just how many worry lines crease the other man’s face.

Worse, something haunted lurks behind his easy smile, the ghost of a man from almost six years ago.

Phil replaces the coffee pot before leaning against the counter. “What’s wrong?”

Tony jerks his head up, blinking. “Are you seriously— You, the master of stoicism for four months running, are worried about me?” He waves a hand dismissively, and Phil crosses his arms. “Really, Coulson. I’m fine.”

“You’re drinking with a cat.”

“Better than drinking alone, according to every therapist who tried to keep me from drinking after my little heart incident.” Phil almost laughs at that, and Tony toasts him again before draining his tumbler. But he toys with the glass after, rattling the last few pieces of ice and expertly avoiding Phil’s gaze. After a few seconds, he sighs. “Look, I’m probably crossing a line here,” he says, “and if you need to tell me to shut up and mind my own business, consider my lips totally sealed on the matter. But—” He pauses as he glances up at Phil. “I know people in the business world. Egotistical assholes, mostly, but guys who keep their ears to the ground. They listen for shady dealings so they can cash in on them the second the opportunity presents itself. If you want, I can toss out a couple feelers, see what they know about the people who screwed your brother-in-law. Keep the pilot light on until he’s ready to refile.”

Despite all his years of maintaining a nonplussed expression in the courtroom, Phil feels himself openly gape at his coworker. “You’d—”

“Do you that monumental favor knowing that you’ll never be able to return it?” He snorts, nearly smiling, and Tony grins as he leans back on the bench. “Call it an attempt to look out for other wayward foster parents. No quid pro quo required.”

This time, Phil definitely smiles. “Thanks.”

Tony shrugs. “Don’t worry about it,” he says, almost aggressively casual. His eyes sweep over Phil’s face before he adds, “Although, while we’re on the subject—”

“Phil!” Clint suddenly shouts, and the urgency in his voice sends Phil’s heart sky-rocketing into his throat. He’s only vaguely aware of Tony waving him off as he abandons both the conversation and his coffee to sprint into the living room. Of course, by the time his friends’ laughter and cheering finally cover up the sound of his blood rushing in his ears, he’s already noticed exactly what his husband’s yelling about:

Their nephew standing alone in the middle of the living room, grinning his tiny head off.

“Fi!” he crows when he spots Phil, and he immediately thrusts out his arms in anticipation of a hug. But the movement throws him off balance, and Phil bites back a laugh as he staggers sideways and falls right back onto his butt.

He blinks in obvious confusion as everyone else laughs, but his disappointed expression morphs into delight the second Clint sweeps him off the floor. “You walked!” he announces, and P.J. squeals as his uncle tosses him into the air. “Look at you! You’re gonna be going places!”

“Yeah, like in every cabinet you forgot to child-proof.” Clint scowls at Bucky, but he just shrugs. “Trust the experts: mobility’s great on paper, but the second they start running around, you want to duct-tape them to the nearest door just to keep them still.”

Next to him, Steve sighs. “He’s exaggerating.”

“Do you want to tell them about the linen closet incident, or is that all me?” Unlike with the earlier conversation, Steve’s whole face flares bright red this time. He rubs the side of his neck and mutters something while his husband crosses his arms. “What’s that? You want to—”

Steve elbows him in the ribs. “Shut up,” he grumbles.

Bucky flashes the other man what Phil assumes is a victory grin before turning back to Clint. “And here’s a second piece of unsolicited advice,” he says. “Parenting is one half sharing the victories, one half sharing the panic, and at least three halves gloating about the screw-ups.”

Natasha narrows her eyes. “I’m not sure about your math.”

Bucky shrugs. “I majored in communications,” he replies, and grins when everyone else rolls their eyes.

Later that night, just as Phil finishes tucking P.J. into his crib (and rearranging his ever-growing collection of stuffed animals), he spots Clint hovering in the doorway. He cocks his head to one side, but his husband just props his shoulder against the jamb. “There was a box waiting for me on the back stoop,” he says.

Phil raises an eyebrow. “What kind of box?”

“A box with this inside,” Clint replies, and holds up a coffee mug.

Specifically, a _world’s okayest uncle_ coffee mug, special ordered and designed just for him thanks to the miracle of online retailers.

Phil shrugs in response, half to keep from showing his hand and half because it affords him a moment to study his husband. To memorize everything about him: the musculature of his legs, the breadth of his shoulders, the angle of his jaw, the shape of his nose, the messy spikes of his hair. After all, every detail is just another puzzle piece, one of the many tiny fragments of the life they keep building together. And tonight, more than ever, Phil trusts that the total of their life is greater than the sum of all those component pieces—and, more importantly, greater than their last few, rocky months.

Which explains why Phil smiles as he switches on the baby monitor, and why he spreads his fingers across Clint’s hip as he flicks off P.J.’s bedroom light.

“Well?” Clint asks, just barely tipping into Phil’s touch.

Phil shrugs. “I wanted to save the ‘okayest husband’ design for Christmas,” he replies, and Clint grins into their kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the next ten weeks, the MPU is taking a "working hiatus." What's that mean? Easy: playlists, bonus content, one-shots, and other little side-projects not related to the next big story. Find a full schedule of events [here on my tumblr](http://the-wordbutler.tumblr.com/post/140165793487/mpu-posting-schedule-the-working-hiatus), follow my tumblr tag "mpu working hiatus," and know that there will be one-shots posted on April 1, 22, 29, and May 6. 
> 
> And if you're just in this for the big stories, "Presumptions" will start posting May 13. It will be a return to the Banner-Stark household . . . and a return of a lot of other things, too.


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